
Class 

Book 


I I 




I > 



« 

f 


I 


I 


• ■ I 



J 



! 

) ' 

t • 



V . ' 


I 


ùZ-.zr(2io 





\ 


t 

1 • 


.1 


Ij. ‘ 


é 











/ 


' . « 1/14» .'j,- , . y. 


I i*Jii 






A •' 


ism 




■ -A • rt-. 


Â,'. 


r 

• « 


THE CONSPIRATORS 



■ ■'f ./r^V 


<? . 


• .y 


. t ■ 


'•. ' ■' 

v? 




. . >' 


• »'T 




= .C^' 


->1 




' <!■•; 

•« 

, i 


■ f. .J4J 


'Hè 




/; ^ • 


;'*• V 


■ Tf' 
■\>: 


^•~*S! 


^ ' - 


-' *'‘V 


^y'à 

é' ' 

- *^r 


■.M 




o • t»* 


■-hi 

- 






• r^, •-■ 

- '- ' 

<* ^ 

:<\ 7 i 



. r '- j 

' 1 ' '»> 

% ' • 

■ ■ .. 

1 





■'T* ii'.’-l^v . V • '-^ 

* ■*• -' -r ■-•'*14 '.■^. "* ^ * • 

'i-'î 'aSSi*v . . ' • r ' . ■ i-t 


L>J 


, v". ' 


.:v •. 


» ^ _ • •• • « * • 





f: .. 





I 

*_ . f 


':0 

r ■>:. 


Jb. ' 




- 


f »• '■^.' 

V* 

.,Vr 

r 


; , -'.i' V' - • ■"-■ - ■ 




♦ «■ 


V V 

' '/V 







■V 


r 





^h. 


■ ' I* ' 



V > 






•i 



Thh Chevalier D’Harmentau 



THE 


CONSPIRATORS 

» « 

OR 


THE CHEVALIER DHARMENTAL 



BY 

ALEXANDRE DUMAS 

AUTHOR OF 

MONTE CRISTO,” “THE CHEVALIER DE MAISON ROUGE,” ETC. 






GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited 
New York: 9 Lafayette Place 
( London, Glasgow and Manchester 


V 


IN UNIFORM STYLE: 

15 volumes in a box ; with 100 illustrations. 

In the /ollowing^ list the volumes are groupe I 
together in the different series in which they are 
Published, and each group is arranged in the 
order in which it should be read. 

THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO. 

THE THREE MUSKETEERS. » 

TWENTY YEARS AFTER. [■ 

THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 2 Vols. ) 

MARGUERITE DE VALOIS. j 

CHICOT, THE JESTER. l 

THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. ) 

THE CONSPIRATORS. 1 

THE REGENT’S DAUGHTER. ) 

MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN. 

THE QUEEN’S NECKLACE. 

TAKING THE BASTILE. 

THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 

THE CHEVALIER DE MAISON ROUGE. - 


George Routledge /nd Sons, Limited, 

g Lafayette Placr?, New York. 





CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER 

I. CAPTAIN rOQUEFINETTE • • . • 

II. THE MEETING 

III. THE CHEVALIER - - - - • 

IV. A BAL-MASQUE OF THE PERIOD.— THE BAT 

V. THE ARSENAL 

VI. THE PRINCE DE CELLAMARE - 

VII. ALBERONI 

VIII. THE GARRET 

IX. A CITIZEN OF THE RUE DU TEMPS PERDU 

X. THE AGREEMENT - - . - • 

XI. PROS AND CONS - . • - • 

XII. THE DENIS FAMILY - • - - . 

XIII. THE CRIMSON RIBBON .... 

XIV. THE RUE DES BONS ENFANTS - - - 

XV. JEAN BUVAT 

XVI. BATHILDE 

XVII. FIRST LOVE 

XVIII. THE CONSUL DUILIUS - - - - 

XIX. THE ABBE DUBOIS ..... 
XX. THE CONSPIRACY - - - . - 

XXL THE ORDER OF THE HONEY BEE 
XXII. THE QUEEN OF THE GREENLANDERS • 
XXIII. THE DUC DE RICHELIEU • • p • 


PAGB 

I 

lO 

i8 

26 

37 

45 

52 

61 

67 

74 

80 

92 

102 

no 

122 

139 

155 

166 

177 

185 

192 

195 

203 




VI 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER 

XXIV. JEALOUSY . • • • 

XXV. A PRETEXT . • - 

XXVI. COUNTERPLOTS - • • 

XXVII. THE SEVENTH HEAVEN - 

XXVIII. fenelon’s successor 

XXIX. THE PRINCE DE LISTHNAV’S ACCOMPLICE 

XXX. THE FOX AND GOOSE 

XXXI. A CHAPTER OF SAINT-SIMON 
XXXII. A SNARE - - - - 

XXXIII. THE BEGINNING OF THE END 
XXXIV. PARLIAMENTARY JUSTICE - 
XXXV. MAN PROPOSES - - - 

XXXVI. DAVID AND GOLIATH 
XXXVII. THE SAVIOUR OF FRANCE 
XXXVIII. GOD DISPOSES - 
XXXIX. A PRIME minister’s MEMORY 
XL. BONIFACE - - - - 

XLI. THE THREE VISITS • , • 

XLII. THE CLOSET - - - 

XLIII. THE MARRIAGE IN EXTREMIS 
FOSTSCKIPTUM • • • 


PAGB 
» 212 

- 219 
. 226 

- 235 - 

• 241 
. 251 

- 258 

- 267 

- 271 

- 279 

- 287 

• 295 

- 304 

- 313 

- 330 

- 337 

- 345 

• 354 

- 362 
. 369 

• 373 


THE CONSPIRATORS; 

OR, 

THE CHEVALIER D’HARMENTAL. 


CHAPTER I. 

CAPTAIN ROQUEFINETTE. 

On the 22nd of March, in the year of our Lord 1718, a 
young cavalier of high bearing, about twenty-six or twenty- 
eight years of age, mounted on a pure-bred Spanish charger, 
was waiting, towards eight o’clock in the morning, at that 
end of the Pont Neuf which abuts on the Quai de l’Ecole. 

He was so upright and firm in his saddle, that one might 
have imagined him to be placed there as a sentinel by the 
Lieutenant-General of Police, Messire Voyer d’Argenson. 
After waiting about half-an-hour, during which time he im- 
patiently examined the clock of the Samaritaine, his glance, 
wandering till then, appeared to rest with satisfaction on an 
individual who, coming from the Place Dauphine, turned to 
the right, and advanced towards him. 

The man who thus attracted the attention of the young 
chevalier was a powerfully-built fellow of five feet ten, wear- 
ing, instead of a peruke, a forest of his own black hair, slightly 
grizzled, dressed in a manner half-bourgeois, half-military, 
ornamented with a shoulder-knot which had once been crim- 
son, but from exposure to sun and rain had become a dirty 
orange. He was armed with a long sword slung in a belt, 
and which bumped ceaselessly against the calves of his legs. 
Finally, he wore a hat once furnished with a plume and lace, 
and which — in remembrance, no doubt, of its past splendour 

I 


2 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


— its owner had stuck so much over his left ear, that it seemed 
as if only a miracle of equilibrium could keep it in its place. 
There was altogether in the countenance and in the carriage 
and bearing of the man (who seemed from forty to forty-five 
years of age, and who advanced swaggering and keeping the 
middle of the road, curling his moustache with one hand, and 
with the other signing to the carriages to give place), such a 
character of insolent carelessness, that the cavalier who 
watched him smiled involuntarily, as he murmured to himself, 
“ I believe this is my man.” 

In consequence of this probability, he walked straight up 
to the new-comer, with the evident intention of speaking to 
him. The latter, though he evidently did not know the 
cavalier, seeing that he was going to address him, placed 
himself in the third position, and waited, one hand on his 
sword and the other on his moustache, to hear what the 
person who was coming up had to say to him. Indeed, as 
the man with the orange ribbon had foreseen, the young 
cavalier stopped his horse by him, and touching his hat, — 
“ Sir,” said he, “ I think I may conclude, from your appear- 
ance and manner, that you area gentleman; am I mistaken?” 

“ No, palsam-bleu I” replied he to whom this strange ques- 
tion was addressed, touching his hat in his turn. “I am 
delighted that my appearance speaks so well for me, for, 
however little you would think that you were giving me my 
proper title, you may call me captain.” 

“ I am enchanted that you are a soldier ; it is an additional 
security to me that you are incapable of leaving a brave man 
in distress.” 

“ Welcome, provided always the brave man has no need 
of my purse, for I confess, freely, that I have just left my last 
crown in a cabaret on the Port de la Tonnelle.” 

“ Nobody wants your purse, captain ; on the contrary, I 
beg you to believe that mine is at your disposal.” 

To whom have I the honour to speak ?” asked the cap- 
tain, visibly touched by this reply, “ and in what can I oblige 
you ?” 

“ I am the Baron René de Valef,” replied the cavalier. 

“ I think,” interrupted the captain, » that I knew, in the 
Flemish wars, a family of that name.” 


CAPTAIN ROQUEFINETTE. 


3 


It was mine, since we are from Liège.” The two speakers 
exchanged bows. 

“ You must know then,” continued the Baron de Valef, 
*‘that the Chevalier Raoul d’Harmental, one of my most 
intimate friends, last night, in my company, picked up a 
quarrel, which will finish this morning by a meeting. Our 
adversaries were three, and we but two. I went this morning 
to the houses of the Marquis de Gacé and Comte de Sourgis, 
but unfortunately neither the one nor the other had passed 
the night in his bed ; so, as the affair could not wait, as I 
must set out in two hours for Spain, and that we absolutely 
require a second, or rather a third, I installed myself on the 
Pont Neuf with the intention of addressing the first gentle- 
man who passed. You passed, and I addressed myself to 
you.” 

“ And you have done right, pardieu ! rest satisfied, baron, 
I am your man. What hour is fixed for the meeting ?” 

“ Half-past nine this morning.” 

“ Where will it take place ?” 

“ At the Port Maillot.” 

“ Diable ! there is no time to lose ; but you are on 
horseback and I am on foot ; how shall we manage 
that ?” 

“ There is a way, captain.” 

« What is it ?” 

“ It is that you should do me the honour of mounting 
behind me.” 

“ Willingly, baron.” 

“ I warn you, however,” added the young cavalier, with a 
slight smile, “that my horse is rather spirited.” 

“ Oh, I know him !” said the captain, drawing back a step, 
and looking at the beautiful animal with the eye of a con- 
noisseur ; “ if I am not mistaken, he was bred between the 
mountains of Grenada and the Sierra Morena. I rode such 
a one at Almanza, and I have often made him lie down like 
a sheep when he wanted to carry me off at a gallop, only by 
pressing him with my knees.” 

“You reassure me. To horse then, captain.” 

“Here I am, baron.” 

And without using the stirrup, which the young cavalier 

I — 2 


4 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


left free for him, with a single bound the captain sprang on to 
the croup. 

The baron had spoken truly ; his horse was not accus- 
tomed to so heavy a load, therefore he attempted to get rid 
of it. Neither had the captain exaggerated, and the animal 
soon felt that he had found his master ; so that, after a few 
* attempts, which had no other effect than to show to the 
passers-by the address of the two cavaliers, he became obedient, 
and went at a swinging trot down the Quai de l’Ecole, which 
at that time was nothing but a wharf, crossed at the same 
pace the Quai du Louvre and the Quai des Tuileries, through 
the gate of the Conference, and leaving on the left the road 
to Versailles, threaded the great avenue of the Champs 
Elysées, which now leads to the triumphal Arc de l’Etoile. 
Arrived at the Pont d’Antin, the Baron de Valef slackened 
his horse’s pace a little, for he found that he had ample time 
to arrive at the Port Maillot at the hour fixed. 

The captain profited by this respite. 

“ May I, without indiscretion, ask why we are going to 
fight ? I wish, you und • rstand, to know that, in order to 
regulate my conduct towards my adversary, and to know 
whether it is worth killing him.” 

“ That is only fair,” answered the baron ; “ I will tell you 
everything as it passed. We were supping last night at La 
Fillon’s. Of course you know La Fillon, captain ?” 

“ Pardieu ! it was I who started her in the world, in 1705, 
before my Italian campaign.” 

‘‘Well,” replied the baron, laughing, “you may boast of a 
pupil who does you honour. Briefly, I supped there tête-à- 
tête with D’Harmental.” 

“ Without any one of the fair sex ?’* 

“ Oh, mon Dieu, yes ! I must tell you that D’Harmental 
is a kind of Trappist, only going to La Fillon’s for fear of 
the reputation of not going there ; only loving one woman 
at a time, and in love for the moment with the little D’Averne, 
the wife of the lieutenant of the guards.” 

“ Very good !” 

“ We were there, chatting, when we heard a merry party 
enter the room next to ours. As our conversation did not 
concern anybody else, we kept silence, and, without intend- 


CAPTAIN ROQUEFINETTE. 


5 


ing it, hoard the conversation of our neighbours. See what 
chance is. Our neighbours talked of the only thing which 
we ought not to have heard.” 

“ Of the chevalier’s mistress, perhaps ?” 

“Exactly. At the first words of their discourse which 
reached me, I rose, and tried to get Raoul away, but instead 
of following me, he put his hand on my shoulder, and made 
me sit down again. ‘ Then Philippe is making love to the 
little D’Averne ?’ said one. ‘ Since the fête of the Maréchal 
d’Estrée, where she gave him a sword-belt with some verses, 
in which she compared him to Mars,’ replied another voice. 

* That is eight days ago,’ said a third. ‘ Yes,’ replied the 
first. ‘ Oh ! she made a kind of resistance, either that she 
really held by poor D’Harmental, or that she knew that the 
regent only likes those who resist him. At last this morning, 
in exchange for a basketful of flowers and jewels, she has 
consented to receive his highness.’ ” 

“ Ah !” said the captain, “ I begin to understand ; the 
chevalier got angry.” 

“ Exactly. Instead of laughing, as you or I would have 
done, and profiting by this circumstance to get back his 
brevet of colonel, which was taken from him under pretext of 
economy, D’Harmental became so pale that I thought he 
was going to faint ; then, approaching the partition, and 
striking with his fist, to ensure silence, ‘ Gentlemen,’ said he, 

‘ I am sorry to contradict you, but the one who said that 
Mademoiselle d’Averne had granted a rendezvous to the 
regent, or to any other, has told a lie.’ ” 

“ ‘ It was I who said it, and who repeat it, and if it dis- 
pleases you, my name is Lafare, captain of the guards.’ ‘And 
mine, Fargy,’ said a second voice. ‘ And mine, Ravanne,’ 
said the third. ‘ Very well, gentlemen, ’ replied D’Harmental, 
‘to-morrow, from nine to half-past, at the Port Maillot’ 
And he sat down again opposite me. They talked of some- 
thing else, and we finished our supper. That is the whole 
affair, captain, and you now know as much as I.” 

The captain gave vent to a kind of exclamation which 
seemed to say, “ This is not very serious but in spite of • 
this semi-disapprobation, he resolved none the less to support, 
to the best of his power, the cause of which he had so unex- 


6 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


pectedly been made the champion, however defective that 
cause might appear to him in principle ; besides, even had he 
wished it, he had gone too far to draw back. They had now 
arrived at the Port Maillot, and a young cavalier, who ap- 
peared to be waiting, and who had from a distance perceived 
the baron and the captain, put his horse to the gallop, and 
approached rapidly ; this was the Chevalier d’HarmentaL 
My dear chevalier,” said the Baron de Valef, grasping 
his hand, “ permit me, in default of an old friend, to present 
to you a new one. Neither Sourgis nor Gacé were at home. 

1 met this gentleman on the Pont Neuf, and told him our 
embarrassment, and he offered himself to free us from it, 
with the greatest good will.” 

“ I am doubly grateful to you then, my dear Valef,” replied 
the chevalier, casting on the captain a look which betrayed 
a slight astonishment. “ And to you, monsieur,” continued 
he. “ I must excuse myself for making your acquaintance by 
mixing you up thus with an unpleasant affair. But you will 
afford me one day or another an opportunity to return your 
kindness, and I hope and beg that, an opportunity arising, you 
would dispose of me as I have of you.” 

“ Well said, chevalier,” replied the captain, leaping to the 
ground ; “ and in speaking thus you might lead me to the end 
of the world. The proverb is right — ‘ It is only mountains 
that don’t meet’” 

“ Who is this original ?” asked D’Harmental of Valef, while 
the captain stamped the calls with his right foot, to stretch 
his legs. 

Ma foi ! I do not know,” said Valef, “ but I do know 
that we should be in a g^eat difficulty without him. Some 
poor officer of fortune, without doubt, whom the ‘peace has 
thrown abroad like so many others ; but we will judge him 
by-and-by, by his works.” , 

Well !” said the captain, becoming animated with the I 
exercise he was taking, where are our adversaries ?” 

‘‘ When I came up to you,” replied D’Harmental, « they 
had not arrived, but I perceived at the end of the avenue a 
kind of hired carriage, which will serve as an excuse if they 
are late ; and indeed,” added the chevalier, pulling out a 
beautiful watch set with diamonds, “they are not behind 
time, for it is hardly half-past nine.” 


CAPTAIN ROQUEFINETTE, 


7 


“ Let us go,” said Valef, dismounting and throwing the 
reins to D’Harmental’s valet, “for if they arrive at the 
rendezvous while we stand gossiping here, it will appear as 
though we had kept them waiting.” 

“You are right,” said D’Harmental ; and, dismounting, he 
advanced towards the entrance of the wood, followed by 
his two companions. 

“ Will you not take anything, gentlemen,” said the landlord 
of the restaurant, who was standing at his door, waiting for 
custom. 

“ Yes, Maître Durand,” replied D’Harmental, who wished, 
in order that they might not be disturbed, to make it appear 
as if they had come from an ordinary walk, “ breakfast for 
three. We are going to take a turn in the avenue, and then 
we shall come back.” And he let three louis fall into the 
hands of the innkeeper. 

The captain saw the shine of the three geld pieces one after 
another, and quickly reckoned up what might be had at the 
“ Bois de Boulogne ” for seventy-two francs ; but as he knew 
whom he had to deal with, he judged that a little advice from 
him would not be useless ; consequently, in his turn approach- 
ing the maître d’hotel, — 

“ Listen, my friend,” said he ; “ you know that I understand 
the price of things, and that no one can deceive me about the 
amount of a tavern bill Let the wines be good and varied, 
and let the breakfast be copious, or I will break your head ! 
Do you understand ?” 

“ Be easy, captain,” answered Durand, “ it is not a customer 
like you whom I would deceive.” 

“All right; I have eaten nothing for twelve hours. 
Arrange accordingly.” 

The hotel-keeper bowed, as knowing what that meant, and 
went back to his kitchen, beginning to think that he had made 
a worse bargain than he had hoped. 

As to the captain, after having made a last sign of recog- 
nition, half amicable, half threatening, he quickened his pace, 
and rejoined the chevalier and the baron, who had stopped 
to wait for him. 

The chevalier was not wrong as to the situation of the hired 
carriage. At the turn of the first alley he saw his three 


8 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


adversaries getting out of it. They were, as we have already 
said, the Marquis de Lafare, the Comte de Fargy, and the 
Chevalier de Ravanne. 

Our readers will now permit us to give them some short 
details of these three personages, who will often reappear in 
the course of this history. Lafare, the best known of the 
three, thanks to the poetry which he has left behind him, was 
a man of about thirty-six or thirty-eight years, of a frank and 
open countenance, and of an inexhaustible gaiety and good 
humour. Always ready to engage with all comers, at table, 
at play, or at arms, and that without malice or bitterness ; 
much run after by the fair sex, and much beloved by the 
regent, who had named him his captain of the guards, and 
who, during the ten years in which he had admitted him into 
his intimacy, had found him his rival sometimes, but his 
faithful servant always. Thus the prince, who had the habit 
of giving nick-names to all his boon companions, as well as 
to his mistresses, never called him any other than “bon 
enfant” Nevertheless, for some time the popularity of 
Lafare, established as it was by agreeable antecedents, was 
fast lowering amongst the ladies of the court and the girls of 
the opera. There was a report current that he was going to 
be so ridiculous as to become a well-behaved man. It is true 
that some people, in order to preserve his reputation for him, 
whispered that this apparent conversion had no other cause 
than the jealousy of Mademoiselle de Conti, daughter of the 
duchess, and granddaughter of the great Condé, who it was 
said honoured the regent’s captain of the guards with a par- 
ticular affection. His alliance with the Due de Richelieu, 
who on his side was supposed to be the lover of Made- 
moiselle de Charolais, gave consistency to this report. 

The Comte de Fargy, generally called “ Le Beau Fargy,” 
thus substituting the title which he had received from nature 
for that which his fathers had left him, was cited, as his name 
indicates, as the handsomest man of his time, which in that 
age of gallantry imposed obligations from which he had never 
recoiled, and from which he had always come with honour. 
Indeed, it was impossible to be a more perfect figure than he 
was. At once strong and graceful, supple and active, he 
seemed to unite all th^^ different perfections of a hero of 


CAPTAIN ROQUETINETTE, p 

romance of that time. Add to this a charming head, uniting 
the most opposite styles of beauty ; that is to say, black hair 
and blue eyes, strongly-marked features, and a complexion 
like a woman. Unite with all these, wit, loyalty, the greatest 
courage, and you will have an idea of the high consideration 
which Le Fargy must have enjoyed from the society of that 
mad period. 

As to the Chevalier de Ravanne, who has left us such 
strange memoirs of his early life, that, in spite of their 
authenticity, one is tempted to believe them apocryphal, he 
was still but a youth, rich and of noble birth, wLo entered 
into life by a golden door, and ran into all its pleasures with 
the fiery imprudence and eagerness of his age. He carried 
to excess, as so many do at eighteen, all the vices and all the 
virtues of his day. It will be easily understood how proud he 
was to serve as second to men like Lafare and Fargy in â 
meeting which was likely to “ make a noise.” 


10 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


CHAPTER IL 

THE MEETING. 

As soon as Lafare, Fargy, and Ravanne saw their adversaries 
appear at the corner of the path, they walked to meet them. 
Arrived at ten paces from each other, they all took off their 
hats and bowed with that elegant politeness which was a 
characteristic of the aristocracy of the eighteenth century, and 
advanced some steps thus bareheaded with a smile on their 
lips, so that to the eyes of the passer-by, ignorant of the cause 
of their réunion, they would have appeared like friends en- 
chanted to meet 

“ Gentlemen,” said the Chevalier d’Harmental, to whom 
the first word by right belonged, “ I hope that neither you 
nor we have been followed ; but it is getting late, and we 
might be disturbed here. I think it would be wise in us to 
find a more retired spot, where we shall be more at ease to 
transact the little business which we have in hand.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Ravanne, “ I know one which will suit 
you, a hundred yards from here — a true cover.” 

‘‘ Come, let us follow the child,” said the captain \ “ inno- 
cence leads to safety.” 

Ravanne turned round, and examined, from head to foot, 
our friend with the yellow ribbons. 

“ If you are not previously engaged, my strapping friend,” 
said he, in a bantering tone, ‘‘ I claim the preference.” 

** Wait a moment, Ravanne,” interrupted Lafare ; “ I have 
some explanations to give to Monsieur d’Harmental.” 

“ Monsieur Lafare,” replied the chevalier, “ your courage 
is so well known, that the explanations you offer me are a 
proof of delicacy for which I thank you ; but these explana- 
tions would only delay us uselessly, and we have no time to 
lose.’ 

“ Bravo !” cried Ravanne, “ that is what I call speaking, 
chevalier. As soon as we have cut each other’s throats. I 


THE MEETING, 


It 


hope you will grant me your friendship. I have heard you 
much spoken of in good quarters, and have long wished to 
make your acquaintance.” 

“ Come, come, Ravanne,” said Fargy, since you have 
undertaken to be our guide, show us the way.” 

Ravanne sprang into the wood like a young fawn : his five 
companions followed. At the end of about ten minutes’ 
walking, during which the six adversaries had maintained the 
most profound silence, either from fear of being heard, or 
from that natural feeling which makes a man in the moment 
of danger reflective for a time, they found themselves in the 
midst of a glade, surrounded on all sides by a screen of trees. 

“ Well,” said Ravanne, looking round him in a satisfied 
manner, “ what do you say to the locality ?” 

“ I say that if you boast of having discovered it,” said the 
captain, “ you are a strange kind of Christopher Columbus. 
If you had told me it was here you were coming, I could 
have guided you with my eyes shut.” 

“ Well,” replied Ravanne, “ we will endeavour that you 
shall leave it in the same manner.” 

“It is with you that my business lies. Monsieur de Lafare,” 
said D’Harmental, throwing his hat on the ground. 

“ Yes, monsieur,” replied the captain of the guards, fol- 
lowing the example of the chevalier ; “ and at the same time 
I know that nothing could give me more honour and more 
pain than a rencontre with you, particularly for such a cause.” 

D’Harmental smiled as a man on whom this flower of 
politeness was not lost, but his only answer was to draw his 
sword. 

“ It appears, my dear baron,” said Fargy, addressing him- 
self to Valef, “ that you are on the point of setting out for 
Spain.” 

“ I ought to have left last night ; and nothing less than the 
pleasure I promised myself in seeing you this morning would 
have detained me till now, so important is my errand.” 

“ Diable ! you distress me,” said Fargy, drawing, “ for if 
I should have the misfortune to retard you, you are the man 
to bear me deadly malice.” 

“ Not at all. I should know that it was from pure friend- 
ship, my dear count,” replied Valef * “so do your best, 1 
beg, for I am at your orders.” 


12 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


“ Come, then, monsieur,” said Ravanne to the captain, 
who was folding his coat neatly, and placing it by his hat, 
“ you see that I am waiting for you.” 

“ Do not be impatient, my fine fellow,” said the old soldier, 
continuing his preparations with the phlegm natural to him ; 
“ one of the most essential qualities in arms is sang-froid 
I was , like you at your age \ but after the third or fourth 
sword-blow I received, I understood that I was on the wrong 
road, and I returned to the right path. There,” added he, 
at last drawing his sword, which I have said was of extreme 
length. 

“ Peste !” said Ravanne, throwing a glance on his adver- 
sary’s weapon, “ what a charming implement you have there ! 
It reminds me of the great spit in my mother’s kitchen ; and 
I am grieved that I did not order the maître-d’hôtel to bring 
it me, as a match to yours.” 

“ Your mother is a worthy woman, and her ‘ cuisine ’ is a 
good one ; I have heard both spoken of with great praise, 
monsieur le chevalier,” replied the captain, with an almost 
paternal manner ; “ I should be grieved to take you from one 
or the other for a trifle like that which procures me the 
honour of crossing swords with you. Suppose, then, that 
you are only taking a lesson from your fencing-master, and 
keep the distance.” 

The recommendation was useless. Ravanne was exaspe- 
rated by his adversary’s calmness, to which, in spite of his 
courage, his young and ardent blood did not allow him to 
attain. He attacked the captain with such fury that their 
swords engaged at the hilt. The captain made a step back. 

“ Ah ! you give ground, my tall friend.” 

‘‘To give ground is not to fly, my little chevalier,” replied 
the captain ; “it is an axiom of the art which I advise you 
to consider ; besides, I am not sorry to study your play. 
Ah ! you are a pupil of Berthelot, apparently ; he is a good 
master, but he has one great fault : it is not teaching to 
parry. Stay, look at this,’ continued he, replying by a thrust 
in “ seconde ” to a straight thrust ; “ if I had lunged, I 
should have spitted you like a lark.” 

Ravanne was furious, for he had felt on his breast the 
point of his adversary’s sword, but so lightly that he might 


MEETING, 


n 


have taken it for the button of a foil. His anger redoubled 
at the conviction that he owed his life to the captain, and his 
attacks became more numerous and more furious than ever. 

“ Stop, stop,^ said the captain ; “ now you are going crazy, 
and trying to blind me ; fie ! fie ! young man ; at the chest, 
morbleu ! Ah ! at the face again ; you will force me to 
disarm you. Again ! Go and pick up your sword, young 
man ; and come back hopping on one leg to calm yourself.’* 
And with a sudden twist he whipped Ravanne’s sword out 
of his hand and sent it flying some twenty paces from him. 
This time Ravanne profited by the advice. He went slowly 
to pick up his sword, and came back quietly to the captain ; 
but the young man was as pale as his satin vest, on which 
was apparent a small drop of blood. 

“ You are right, captain,** said he, “ and I am still but a 
child ; but this meeting will, I hope, help to make a man of 
me. Some passes more, if you please, that it may not be 
said you have had all the honours.** 

And he put himself on guard. The captain was right ; 
the chevalier only required to be calm to make him a for- 
midable adversary : thus, at the first thrust of this third 
engagement, he saw that he must attend solely to his own 
defence ; but his superiority in the art of fencing was too 
decided for his young adversary to obtain any advantage over 
him. The matter ended as it was easy to foresee. The 
captain disarmed Ravanne a second time ; but this time he 
went and picked up the sword himself, and with a politeness 
of which at first one might have supposed him incapable. 

“Monsieur le chevalier,** said he, extending his hand to 
Ravanne, “ you are a brave young man j but believe in an 
old frequenter of schools and taverns, who was at the Flemish 
wars before you were born, at the Italian when you were in 
your cradle, and at the Spanish whilst you were a pagej 
change your master. Leave Berthelot, who has already 
taught you all he knows, and take Bois-Robert ; and may 
the devil fly away with me, if in six months you are not as 
good a fencer as myself.** 

“ Thanks for your lesson,** said Ravanne, taking the hand 
of the captain, while two tears, which he could not restrain, 
flowed down his cheeks ; “ I hope it will profit me.** 


14 


THE COA'SE/EATOES. 


And, receiving his sword, he did what the captain had 
already done — sheathed it. They then both cast their eyes 
on their companions to see how things were going. The 
combat was over. Lafare was seated on the ground, with 
his back leaning against a tree : he had been run through 
the body, but happily the point of the sword had struck 
against a rib, and had glanced along the bone, so that the 
wound seemed at first worse than it really was ; still he had 
fainted — the shock had been so violent. D’Harmental was 
on his knees before him, endeavouring to staunch the blood 
with his handkerchief Fargy and Valef had wounded each 
other at the same moment. One was struck in the thigh, 
the other run through the arm ; both had apologised, pro- 
mising to be friends for the future. 

“ Look, young man,” said the captain, showing Ravanne 
these different episodes of the field of battla “ Look on thaJ:, 
and meditate. There is the blood of three brave gentlemen 
flowing, — probably for a folly.” 

“ Faith, captain,” answered Ravanne, quite calmed down, 
“ I believe you are right, and that you are the only one of 
us all that has got common sense.” 

At that moment Lafare opened his eyes and recognised 
D’Harmental in the man who was tend ng him. 

“ Chevalier,” said he, “ take a friend’s advice ; send me a 
kind of surgeon whom you will find in the carria^^e, and 
whom I brought with me in case of accident. Then gain 
Paris as fast as possible. Show yourself to-night at the opera 
ball, and if they ask you about me, say that it is a week since 
you have seen me. As to me, you may be quite easy. 
Your name shall not pass my lips ; and if you get into any 
unpleasant discussion with the police, let me know at once, 
and we will manage so that the affair shall have no conse- 
quences.” 

“ Thanks, Monsieur le Marquis,” answered D’Harmental, 

I quit you, because I leave you in better hands than mine ; 
otherwise, believe me, nothing should have separated me 
from you until 1 had seen you in your bed.” 

“Pleasant journey, my dear Valef,” said Fargy, “for I 
do not think that scratch will hinder your going. On your 
return, do not forget that you have a friend at No. 14, Place 
Louis-le-Grand.” 


THE MEETING, 


15 


And you, my dear Fargy, if you have any commission 
for Madrid, you have but to say so, and you may rely upon 
its being executed with the exactitude and zeal of a true 
comrade.” 

And the two friends shook hands as if nothing had passed. 

“ Adieu, young man, adieu,” said the captain to Ravanne ; 
“ do not forget the advice which I have given you. Give up 
Berthelot, and take to Bois-Robert. Be calm, — give ground 
when it is necessary, — parry in time, and you will be one of 
the best fencers in the kingdom of France. My implement 
sends its compliments to your mother’s great spit.” 

Ravanne, in spite of his presence of mind, could not find 
anything to reply to the captain ; so he contented himself 
with bowing and going up to Lafare, who appeared to be 
the most seriously wounded. 

As to D’Harmental, Valef, and the captain, they rapidly 
gained the path, where they found the coach, and inside, the 
surgeon, who was enjoying a nap. D’Harmental woke him ; 
and showing him the way he must go, told him that the 
Marquis de Lafare and the Comte de Fargy had need of 
his services. He also ordered his valet to dismount and 
follow the surgeon in order to aid him ; then, turning towards 
the captain, — 

“ Captain,” said he, “ I do not think that it would be 
prudent to go and eat the breakfast which we have ordered ; 
therefore receive my thanks for the assistance you have ren- 
dered me, and in remembrance of me, as it seems you are 
on foot, will you accept one of my two horses ? you can take 
one by chance ; they are both good, and neither will fail you 
if you have need to go eight or ten leagues in the hour.’' 

“ Faith, chevalier,” answered the captain, casting a look 
on the hors which had been so generously offered to him, 
“ there was no need for that. Their blood and their purses 
are things which gentlemen lend each other every day ; but 
you make the offer with so good a grace that I know not how 
to refuse you. If you ever have need of me, for anything 
whatever, remember that I am at your service.” 

“ If that case should occur, where should I find vou, mon- 
sieur ?” said D’Harmental, smiling. 

“ I have no fixed residence, chevalier, but you may always 


■v' ^ ^ y' • ■ PB 

'■’' V *. V 





N 


w 






f 


TN-r, 

.•i 


L'^Uvr • 


te- '■ 


‘.cv: v.V; -, ^ 

* • . 7?r ► • \ 


&• v;- ■'->:. 

r 1 ., 

m 




<*" ■ 

1 ^ * 

A V* i?v 




rV 


I 


.t 


.*1 


' ✓ 


( 

• »■ 




li* 


1 > i. ♦< 


*'#?'ty,*'- . ,' 





.o 


• *. 






* 


• I 




r ' • 

^ ^ - 




^ » 




Ji 

■ 


► *, 

r 


» . 


. » 

w i\^ 


I* ♦» 

■V ; 


•u. 




f. 


i >H 

é-> 


kv. ; 


? i ^ .v* 

^ r**- . 


•t 

W' 


« s 

A 



.■i» 





.4 


^■- v^’ ' 

*■ * L‘ ^ 

V . 





■% • 


* w 










/ 

> >■ 



4 , • 

f^-'î 

:■^^ .'•:a5 

P" ‘V'V. : 




*.•’ * / "^i 





V . 


* i 


THE MEETING, 


17 


“Adieu, my dear chevalier. Do not retain too unkind a 
remembrance of me, and behave so that ten years hence I 
may still think what I think now — that is to say, that you are 
one of the noblest gentlemen in France. 

“ Sophie D’Averne.” 

“ Mon Dieu !” cried D’Harmental, striking his fist on a 
beautiful buhl table, which he smashed to bits, “ if I have 
killed that poor Lafare I shall never forgive myself.” 

After this outburst, which comforted him a little, the poor 
fellow began to walk backwards and forwards between the 
door and the window in a manner that showed that he still 
wanted more deceptions of the same sort in order to arrive at 
the perfection of moral philosophy which the faithless beauty 
preached to him. Then, after two or three turns, he saw the 
other letter, which he had entirely forgotten, lying on the 
floor. He passed it once or twice, looking at it with a supreme 
indifference. At last, seeming to think that it would make 
some diversion on the first, he picked it up disdainfully, 
opened it slowly, looked at the writing, which was unknown 
to him, searched for the signature, but there was none ; and 
then, led on by the mysterious air of it, he read as follows : 

“ Chevalier, 

“ If you have in your mind a quarter of the romance, 
or in your heart half the courage, that your friends give you 
credit for, some one is ready to offer you an enterprise worthy 
of you, and the result of which will be at the same time to 
avenge you on the man you hate most in the world, and to 
conduct you to a goal more brilliant than you can have 
hoped for in your wildest dreams. The good genius who 
will lead you thither by an enchanted road, and in whom 
you must trust entirely, will expect you this evening at ten 
o’clock at the opera ball. If you come there unmasked, he 
will come to you ; if you come masked, you will know him 
by the violet ribbon which he will wear on his left shoulder. 
The watch-word is ‘ open sesame speak boldly, and a cavern 
will open to you as wonderful as that of Ali Baba.” 

“ Bravo !” said D’Harmental ; “ if the genius in the violet 
ribbons keeps only half his promise, by my honour he has 
found his man 1” 


z 


18 


THE CONSPIRATORS 


CHAPTER IIL 

THE CHEVALIER, 

The Chevalier Raoul d’Harmental, with whom, before going 
further, it is necessary that our readers make a better ac- 
quaintance, was the last of one of the best families of Niver- 
nais. Although that family had never played an important 
part in history, yet it did not want a certain notoriety, which 
it had acquired partly alone and partly by its alliances. Thus 
the father of the chevalier, the Sire Gaston d’Harmental, had 
come to Paris in 1682, and had proved his genealogical tree 
from the year 1399, an heraldic operation which would have 
given some trouble to more than one duke and peer. In 
another direction, his maternal uncle. Monsieur de Torigny, 
before being named chevalier of the order in the promotion 
of 1694, had confessed, in order to get his sixteen quarterings 
recognised, that the best part of his scutcheon was that of 
the D’Har mentals, with whom his ancestors had been allied 
for three hundred years. Here, then, was enough to satisfy 
the aristocratic demands of the age of which we write. 

The chevalier was neither poor nor rich — that is to say, 
his father, when he died, had left him an estate in the en- 
virons of Nevers, which brought him in from 20,000 to 
25,000 livres a year. This was enough to live well in the 
country, but the chevalier had received an excellent educa- 
tion, and was very ambitious ; therefore he had at his majority, 
in 17 1 1, quitted his home for Paris. His first visit was to 
the Comte de Torigny, on whom he counted to introduce 
him at court. Unfortunately, at that time the Comte de 
Torigny was absent from home ; but as he remembered with 
pleasure the family of D’Harmental, he recommended his 
nephew to the Chevalier de Villarceaux, who could refuse 
nothing to his friend the Comte de Torigny, and took the 
young man to Madame de Maintenon. 

Madame de Maintenon had one good quality — she always 


THE CHEVALIER. 


19 


continued to be the friend of her old lovers. She received 
the Chevalier d’Harmental graciously, thanks to the old re- 
collections which recommended him to her, and some days 
afterwards, the Maréchal de Villars coming to pay his court 
to her, she spoke a few such pressing words in favour of her 
young protégé, that the maréchal, delighted to find an op- 
portunity of obliging this queen “in partibus,” replied that 
from that hour he attached the chevalier to his military estab- 
lishment, and would take care to offer him every occasion to 
ju'^tify his august protectress’s good opinion of him. 

It was a great joy to the chevalier to see such a door 
opened to him. The coming campaign was definitive. Louis 
XIV. had arrived at the last period of his reign — the period 
of reverses. Tallard and Marsin had been beaten at Hoch- 
stett, Villeroy at Ramifies, and Villars himself, the hero of 
Friedlingen, had lost the famous battle of Malplaquet against 
Marlborough and Eugene. Europe, kept down for a time 
by Colbert and Lou vois, rose against France, and the situa- 
tion of affairs was desperate. 

The king, like a despairing invalid who changes his doctor 
every hour, changed ministers every day. Each new attempt 
but revealed a new weakness. France could not sustain war, 
and could not obtain peace. Vainly she offered to abandon 
Spain, and limit her frontier. This was not sufficient humilia- 
tion. They exacted that the king should allow the hostile 
armies to cross France, in order to chase his grandson from 
the throne of Spain ; and also that he should give up, as 
pledges, Cambray, Mettray, La Rochelle, and Bayonne, unless 
he preferred dethroning him himself, by open force, during 
the following year. 

These were the conditions on which a truce was granted to 
the conqueror of the plains of Senef, Fleurus, of Steerekirk, 
and of La Marsalle ; to him who had hitherto held in the 
folds of his royal mantle peace and war ; to him who called 
himself the distributer of crowns, the chastiser of nations, the 
great, the immortal ; to him in whose honour, during the 
last half century; marbles had been sculptured, bronzes cast, 
sonnets written, and incense poured. 

Louis XIV. had wept in the full council. These tears had 
produced an army, which was entrusted to Villars. 

2 — 3 


20 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


Villars marched straight to the enemy, whose camp was at 
Denain, and who slept in security while watching the agony 
of France. Never had greater responsibility rested on one 
head. On one blow of Villars hung the salvation of France. 
The allies had established a line of fortifications between 
Denain and Marchiennes, which, in their pride of anticipa- 
tion, Albemarle and Eugene called the grand route to Paris. • 

Villars resolved to take Denain by surprise, and, Albe- 
marle conquered, to conquer Eugene. In order to succeed 
in this audacious enterprise, it was necessary to deceive, not 
only the enemy’s army, but also his own, the success of this 
coup de main being in its impossibility. 

'Villars proclaimed aloud his intention of forcing the lines 
of Landrecies. One night, at an appointed hour, the whole 
army moves off in the direction of that town. All at once 
the order is given to bear to the left. His genius throws 
three bridges over the Scheldt. Villars passes over the river 
without obstacle, throws himself into the marshes considered 
impracticable, and where the soldier advances with the water 
up to his waist ; marches straight to the first redoubts ; takes 
them almost without striking a blow; seizes successively a 
league of fortifications ; reaches Denain ; crosses the fosse 
which surrounds it, penetrates into the town, and on arriving 
at the place, finds his young protégé, the Chevalier d’Har 
mental, who presents to him the sword of Albemarle, whom 
he has just taken prisoner. 

At this moment the arrival of Eugene is announced. 
Villars returns, reaches, before him, the bridge over which 
he must pass, takes possession of it, and awaits him. There 
the true combat takes place, for the taking of Denain had been 
but a short skirmish. Eugene makes attack after attack, 
returns seven times to the head of the bridge, his best troops 
being destroyed by the artillery which protects it, and the 
bayonets which defend it. At length, his clothes riddled 
with balls, and bleeding from two wounds, he mounts his 
third harse, the conqueror of Hochstett and Malplaquet 
retreats crying with rage, and biting his gloves with fury. In 
six hours the aspect of things has changed. France is saved, 
and Louis XIV. is still Le Grand Roi. 

D’Har mental had conducted himself like a man who 


THE CHE VA LIEE. 


21 


Wished to gain his spurs at once. Villars, seeing him covered 
with blood and dust, recalled to his mind by whom he had 
been recommended to him ; made him draw near, while, in 
the midst of the field of battle, he wTote on a drum the result 
of the day. 

“ Are you wounded ?” asked he. 

. “Yes, Monsieur le Maréchal, but so slightly that it is 
' not worth speaking of.” 

“Have you the strength to ride sixty leagues, without 
resting an hour, a minute, a second ?” 

“I have the strength for anything that will serve the 
king or you.” 

“ Then set out instantly ; go to Madame de Maintenon ; 
tell her from me what you have seen, and announce to her 
the courier who will bring the official account.” 

D’Harmental understood the importance of the mission 
with which he was charged, and bleeding and dusty as he 
was, he mounted a fresh horse and gained the first stage. 
Twelve hours afterwards he was at Versailles. 

Villars had foreseen what would happen. At the first 
words which fell from the mouth of the chevalier, Madame 
de Maintenon took him by the hand, and conducted him to 
the king. The king was at w’ork with Voisin, but, contrary 
to his habit, in his room, for he was a little indisposed. 

Madame de Maintenon opened the door, pushed D’Har- 
mental to the feet of the king, and raising her hands to 
heaven i 

“ Sire,” said she, “ give thanks to God, for your majesty 
knows we are nothing by ourselves, and it is from him comes 
every blessing.” 

“ What has happened, monsieur ? Speak,” said the king 
quickly, astonished to see this young man, whom he did not 
know, at his feet » 

“ Sire,” replied the chevalier, “ the camp at Denain is 
taken. Albemarle is a prisoner. Prince Eugene has taken 
flight ; and the Maréchal de Villars places his victory at your 
majesty’s feet” 

Louis XIV. turned pale, in spite of his command over 
himself. He felt his limbs fail him, and leant against the 
table for support. 


22 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


‘‘What ails you, sire?” said Madame de Maintenon, 
hastening to him. 

“ It is, madam, that I owe you everything,” said Louis 
XIV. ; “ you save the king, and your friends save the 
kingdom.” 

Madame de Maintenon bowed and kissed the king’s hand 
respectfully. 

Then Louis XIV., still pale and much moved, passed 
behind the great curtain which hid the alcove containing his 
bed, and they heard a prayer of thanksgiving. He then re- 
appeared, grave and calm, as if nothing had happened. 

“ And now, monsieur,” said he, “ tell me the details.” 

D’Harmental gave an account of that marvellous battle, 
which came as by a miracle to save the monarchy ; then, 
when he had finished : 

“ And have you nothing to tell of yourself?” asked Louis 
XIV. “ If I may judge by the blood and dust with which 
you are yet covered, you did not remain idle.” 

“Sire, I did my best,” said D’Harmental, bowing; “but if 
there is really anything to tell, I will, with your permission, 
leave it to the Maréchal de Villars.” 

“ It is well, young man ; and if he forgets you by chance, 
we shall remember. You must be fatigued. Go and rest. 
I am pleased with you.” 

D’Harmental retired joyously, Madame de Maintenon 
conducting him to the door ; he kissed her hand again, and 
hastened to profit by the royal permission. For twenty hours 
he had neither eaten, drunk, nor slept. On his awaking, they 
gave him a packet which had been brought from the minister 
of war. It was his brevet as colonel. Two months after- 
wards peace was made. Spain gave up half its monarchy, 
but France remained intact. Louis XIV. died. Two dis- 
tinct and irreconcilable parties were in existence. That of 
the bastards, centring in the Due de Maine, and that of the 
legitimate princes, represented by the Due d’Orleans. If 
the Due de Maine had had the will, the perseverance, the 
courage, of his wife, Louise Bénédicte de Condé, perhaps, 
supported as he was by the royal will, he might have 
triumphed ; but he had to defend himself in broad day, as 
he was attacked ; and the Due de Maine, weak in mind and 


THE CHEVALIER, 


23 


heart, dangerous only because he was a coward, was only 
good at underhand deeds. 

He was threatened openly, and his numerous artifices and 
wiles were of no use to him. In one day, and almost with- 
out a struggle, he was precipitated from that height to which 
he had been raised by the blind love of the old king. His 
fall was heavy, and above all disgraceful ; he retired muti- 
lated, abandoning the regency to his rival, and only preserv- 
ing, out of all the favours accumulated upon him, the superin- 
tendence of the royal education, the command of the artillery, 
and the precedence over the dukes and peers. 

The decree, which had just passed the parliament, struck 
the old court and all attached to it Letellier did not wait 
to be exiled. Madame de Maintenon took refuge at Saint 
Cyr, and Monsieur le Duc de Maine shut himself up in 
the beautiful town of Sceaux, to finish his translation of 
Lucrece. 

The Chevalier D’Harmental saw, as a passive spectator, 
these different intrigues, waiting till they should assume a 
character which would permit him to take part in them. 
If there had been an open and armed contest, he would have 
taken that side to which gratitude called him. Too young 
and too chaste, if we may say so, in politics, to turn with the 
wind of fortune, he remained faithful to the memory of the 
old king, and to the ruins of the old court. 

^ His absence from the Palais Royal, round which hovered 
all those who wished to take a place in the political sky, was 
interpreted as opposition ; and one morning, as he had re- 
ceived the brevet which gave him a regiment, he received 
the decree which took it from him. 

D’Harmental had the ambition of his age. The only 
career open to a gentleman was that of arms. His début 
had been brilliant, and the blow which at five-and-twenty took 
from him his hopes for the future was profoundly painful. 

He ran to Monsieur de Villars, in whom he had found so 
warm a protector. The marshal received him with the cold- 
ness of a man who not only wishes to forget the past, but also 
to see it forgotten. 

D’Harmental understood that the old courtier was about 
to change his skin, and retired discreetly. Though the age 


24 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


was essentially that of egotism, the chevalier’s first experience 
of it was bitter to him ; but he was at that happy time of 
life when a disappointed ambition is rarely a deep or lasting 
grief. 

Ambition is the passion of those who have no other, and 
the chevalier had all those "proper to five-an d-twenty years of 
age ; besides, the spirit of the times did not tend to melan- 
choly, that is a modern sentiment, springing from the over- 
throw of fortunes and the weakness of man. In the eigh- 
teenth century it was rare to dream of abstract things, or 
aspire to the unknown : men went straight to pleasure, glory, 
or fortune, and all who were handsome, brave or intriguing 
could attain them. That was the time when people were not 
ashamed to be happy. Now mind governs matter so much 
that men dare not avow that they are happy. 

After the long and sombre winter of Louis XIV. ’s old age 
appeared all at once the joyous and brilliant spring of a 
young royalty. Every one basked in this new sun, radiant 
and benevolent, and went about buzzing and careless, like the 
bees and butterflies on the first fine day. The Chevalier 
d’Harmental had retained his sadness for a week ; then he 
mixed again in the crowd, and was drawn in by the whirlpool 
which threw him at the feet of a pretty woman. 

For three months he had been the happiest man in the 
world. He had forgotten Saint Cyr, the Tuileries, and the 
Palais Royal. He did not know whether there was a Madame 
de Maintenon, a king, or a regent. He only knew that it is 
sweet to live when one is loved, and he did not see why he 
should not live and love for ever. He was still in this dream, 
when, as we have said, supping with his friend the Baron de 
Valef at La Fillon’s, in the Rue Saint Honoré, he had been 
all at once brutally awakened by Lafare. Lovers are often 
unpleasantly awakened, and we have seen that D’Harmental 
was not more patient under it than others. It was more 
pardonable in the chevalier, because he thought he loved 
truly, and that in his juvenile good faith he thought nothing 
could replace that love in his heart. 

Thus Madame d’Averr.e’s strange but candid letter, instead 
of inspiring him with the admiration which it merited at that 
time, had at first overwhelmed him. It is the property of 


THE CHEVALIER. 


25 


every sorrow which overtakes us to reawaken past griefs 
which we believed dead, but which were only sleeping. The 
soul has its scars as well as the body, and they are seldom so 
well healed but a new wound can reopen them. 

D’Harmental again began to feel ambitious. The loss of 
his mistress had recalled to him the loss of his regiment. It 
required nothing less than the second letter, so unexpected 
and mysterious, to divert him from his grief. A lover of our 
days would have thrown it from him wdth disdain, and would 
have despised himself if he had not nursed his grief so as to 
make himself poetically melancholy for a w^eek ; but a lover 
in the regency was much more accommodating. Suicide w'as 
scarcely discovered, and if by chance people fell into the 
water, they did not drown as long as there was the least little 
straw to cling to. D’Harmental did not affect the cox- 
combry of sadness. He decided, sighing, it is true, that he 
would go to the opera ball ; and for a lover betrayed in so 
unforeseen and cruel a manner this was something ; but it 
must be confessed, to the shame of our poor species, that he 
was chiefly led to this philosophic determination by the fact 
that the letter was written in a female hand. 


26 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A BAL-MASQUE OF THE PERIOD. — THE BAT. 

The opera balls were then at their height. It was an inven- 
tion of the Chevalier de Bullon, who only obtained pardon 
for assuming the title of Prince d’Auvergne, nobody exactly 
knew why, by rendering this service to the dissipated society 
of thje time. It was he who had invented the double flooring 
which put the pit on a level with the stage ; and the regent, 
who highly appreciated all good inventions, had granted him 
in recompense a pension of two thousand livres, which was 
four times what the Grand Roi had given to Corneille. 
That beautiful room, with its rich and grave architecture, 
which the Cardinal de Richelieu had inaugurated by his 
“ Mirame,” where Sully and Quinault’s pastorals had been 
represented, and where Molière had himself played his 
principal works, was this evening the rendezvous of all that 
was noble, rich, and elegant. 

D’Harmental, from a feeling of spite, very natural in his 
situation, had taken particular pains with his toilette. When 
he arrived, the room was already full, and he had an instant’s 
fear that the mask with the violet ribbons would not find 
him, inasmuch as the unknown had neglected to assign a 
place of meeting, and he congratulated himself on having 
come unmasked. This resolution showed great confidence 
in the discretion of his late adversaries, a word from whom 
would have sent him before the Parliament, or at least to the 
Bastille. But so much confidence had the gentlemen of that 
day in each other’s good faith, that, after having in the 
morning passed his sword through the body of one of the 
regent’s favourites, the chevalier came, without hesitation, to 
seek an adventure at the Palais Royal. The first person he 
saw there was the young Due de Richelieu, whose name, 
adventures, elegance, and perhaps indiscretions, had already 
brought him so much into fashion. It was said that two 


/ 


^ BAL^MASQUE OF THE PERIOD.— THE BAT. 27 

princesses of the blood disputed his affections, which did 
not prevent Madame de Nesle and Madame de Polignac 
from fighting with pistols for him, or Madame de Sabran, 
Madame de Villars, Madame de Mouchy, and Madame de 
Tencin, from sharing his heart 

He had just joined the Marquis de Canillac, one of the 
regent’s favourites, whom, on account of the grave appearance 
he affected, his highness called his menton Richelieu began 
to tell Canillac a story, out loud and with much gesticulation. 
The chevalier knew the duke, but not enough to interrupt a 
conversation ; he was going to pass, when the duke seized 
him by the coat 

^ Pardieu !” he said, "my dear chevalier, you are not de 
trop. I am telling Canillac an adventure which may be 
useful to him as nocturnal lieutenant to the regent, and to 
you, as running the same danger that I did. The history 
dates from to-day — a further merit, as I have only had time 
to tell it to about twenty people, so that it is scarcely known. 
Spread it, you will oblige me, and the regent also.” 

D’Harmental frowned. The duke had chosen his time 
badly. At this moment the Chevalier de Ravanne passed, 
pursuing a masque. " Ravanne !” cried Richelieu, " Ra- 
vanne !” 

" I am not at leisure,” replied he. 

" Do you know where Lafare is T* 

"He has the migraine.” 

"AndFargy?” 

" He has sprained himself.” And Ravanne disappeared 
in the crowd, after bowing in the most friendly manner to 
his adversary of the morning. 

" Well, and the story ?” asked Canillac. 

" We are coming to it Imagine that some time ago, when 
I left the Bastille, where my duel with Gacé had sent me, 
three or four days after my reappearance Rafé gave me a 
charming little note from Madame de Parabère, inviting me 
to pass that evening with her. You understand, chevalier, 
that it is not at the moment of leaving the Bastille that one 
would despise a rendezvous, given by the mistress of him 
who holds the keys. No need to inquire if I was punctual ; 
guess who I found seated on the sofa by her side. I give 
you a hundred guesses.” 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


ô8 

** Her husband,” said Canillac. 

“ On the contrary, it was his royal highness himself. I 
was so much the more astonished, as I had been admitted 
with some mystery ; nevertheless, as you will understand, I 
would not allow myself to appear astonished. I assumed a 
composed and modest air, like yours, Canillac, and saluted 
the marquise with such profound respect, that the regent 
laughed. I did not expect this explosion, and was a little 
disconcerted. I took a chair, but the regent signed to me 
to take my place on the sofa. I obeyed. 

“ ‘ My dear duke,’ he said, * we have written to you on a 
serious affair. Here is this poor marchioness, who, after 
being separated from her husband for two years, is threatened 
with an action by this clown, under pretext that she has a 
lover.’ The marchioness tried to blush, but finding she 
could not, covered her face with her fan. ‘ At the first word 
she told me of her position,’ continued the regent, ‘ I sent 
for D’Argenson, and asked him who this lover could be.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, monsieur, spare me !’ said the marchioness.-^ 
* Nonsense, my little duck ; a little patience.’ — ‘ Do you 
know what the lieutenant of police answered me, my dear 
duke ?’ — ‘ No,’ said I, much embarrassed. — ‘ He said it was 
either you or me.’ — ‘ It is an atrocious calumny,’ I cried. — • 
‘Don’t be excited, the marchioness has confessed all.’ 

“ ‘ Then,’ I replied, ‘ if the marchioness has confessed all, 
I do not see what remains for me to tell.’ — ^Oh !’ continued 
the regent, ‘ I do not ask you for details. It only remains 
for us, as accomplices, to get one another out of the scrape.’ 
— ‘ And what have you to fear, monseigneur ?’ I asked. ‘ I 
know that, protected by your highness’s name, I might brave 
all. What have we to fear ?’ — ‘ The outcry of Parabere, who 
wants me to make him a duke.’ 

“ ‘ Well, suppose we reconcile them,’ replied I. — ‘ Ex- 
actly,’ said his highness, laughing; ‘and you have had the 
same idea as the marchioness.’ — ‘ Pardieu, madame, that is 
an honour for me. There must be a kind of apparent re- 
conciliation between this tender couple, which would prevent 
the marquis from incommoding us with the scandal of an 
action.’ — ‘ But the difficulty,’ objected Madame de Parabère, 
‘ is, that it is two years since he has been here ; and, as he 


A BAL-MASQUE OF THE PERIOD.— THE BAT, 29 

piques himself on his jealousy and severity, what can we 
say ? He has made a vow, that if any one sets foot here 
during his absence, the law should avenge him/ 

“ ‘ You see, Richelieu, this becomes rather uncomfortable,* 
added the regent. — ‘ Peste ! It does indeed.’ — ‘ 1 have 
some means of coercion in my hands, but they do not go so 
far as to force a husband to be reconciled to his wife, and to 
receive her at his house.’ — ‘ Well,’ replied I, ‘ suppose w^e 
bring him here.’—* There is the difficulty.’ — ‘ Wait a moment. 
May I ask if Monsieur de Parabère still has a weakness for 
champagne and burgundy ?’ — * I fear so,’ said the mar- 
chioness. — ‘ Then, monseigneur, we are saved. I invite the 
marquis to supper, with a dozen of mauvais sujets and 
charming women. You send Dubois.’ — ‘Whatl Dubois?’ 
asked the regent 

* Certainly ; one of us must remain sober. As Dubois 
cannot drink, he must undertake to make the marquis drink ; 
and when everybody is under the table, he can take him 
away from us and do what he likes with him. The rest de- 
pends on the coachman.’ — * Did I not tell you, mrrchioness,* 
said the regent, * that Richelieu would give us good advice ? 
Stop, duke,’ continued he ; * you must leave off w’andering 
round certain palaces ; leave the old lady to die quietly at 
St. Cyr, the lame man to rhyme at Sceaux, and join yourself 
with us. I will give you, in my cabinet, the place of that 
old fool D’Axelles ; and affairs will not perhaps be injured 
by it’ — * I dare say,’ answered I. ‘ The thing is impossible ; 
I have other plans.’ — ‘Obstinate fellow!’ murmured the 
regent.” 

“ And Monsieur de Parabère ?” asked the Chevalier d’Har- 
mental, curious to know the end of the story. — “ Oh ! every- 
thing passed as we arranged it. He went to sleep at my 
house, and awoke at his wife’s. He made a great noise, but 
there w'as no longer any possibility of crying scandal. His 
carriage had stopped at his wife’s hotel, and all the servants 
saw him enter. He was reconciled in spite of himself. If 
he dares again to complain of his beautiful wife, we will 
prove to him, as clearly as possible, that he adores her with- 
out knowing it ; and that she is the most innocent of women 
—also without his knowing it.” 


30 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


** Chevalier !” at this moment a sweet and flute-like 
voice whispered in D’Harmental’s ear, while a little hand 
rested on his arm. 

“ You see that I am wanted.” 

“ I will let you go on one condition.” 

What is it ?” 

“ That you will tell my story to this charming bat, charging 
her to tell it to all the night-birds of her acquaintance.” 

“ I fear,” said D’Harmental, “ I shall not have time.” 

“ Oh ! so much the better for you,” replied the duke, 
freeing the chevalier, whom till then he had held by the coat ; 
“for then you must have something better to say.” 

And he turned on his heel, to take the arm of a domino, 
who, in passing, complimented him on his adventure. D’Har- 
mental threw a rapid glance on the mask who accosted him, 
in order to make sure that it was the one with whom he had 
a rendezvous, and was satisfied on seeing a violet ribbon on 
the left shoulder. He hastened to a distance from Canillac 
and Richelieu, in order not to be interrupted in a conversa- 
tion which he expected to be highly interesting. 

The unknown, whose voice betrayed her sex, was of 
middle height, and young, as far as one could judge from 
the elasticity of her movements. As M. de Richelieu had 
already remarked, she had adopted the costume best calcu- 
lated to hide either graces or defects. She was dressed as a 
bat — a costume much in vogue, and very convenient, from 
its perfect simplicity, being composed only of two black skirts. 
The manner of employing them was at the command of 
everybody. One was fastened, as usual, round the waist ; 
the masked head was passed through the placket-hole of the 
other. The front was pulled down to make wings ; the back 
raised to make horns. You were almost certain thus to 
puzzle an interlocutor, who could only recognise you by the 
closest scrutiny. 

The chevalier made all these observations in less time 
than it has taken to describe them ; but having no know- 
ledge of the person with whom he had to deal, and believing 
it to be some love intrigue, he hesitated to speak ; when, 
turning towards him : 

“ Chevalier,” said the mask, without disguising her voice, 


A BAL-MASQUE OF THE PERIOD.— THE BAT 31 

assuming that her voice was unknown to him, “do you know 
that I am doubly grateful to you for having come, particu- 
larly in the state of mind in which you are ? It is unfortu- 
nate that I cannot attribute this exactitude to anything but 
curiosity.” * 

“Beautiful mask!” answered D’Harmental, “did you not 
tell me in your letter that you were a good genius? Now, if 
really you partake of a superior nature, the past, the present 
and the future must be known to you. You knew, then, 
that I should come ; and, since you knew it, my .coming 
ought not to astonish you.” 

“ Alas !” replied the unknown, “ it is easy to see that you 
are a weak mortal, and that you are happy enough never to 
have raised yourself above your sphere, otherwise you would 
know that if we, as you say, know the past, the present and 
the future, this science is silent as to what regards ourselves, 
and that the things we most desire remain to us olunged in 
the most dense obscurity.” 

“ Diable ! Monsieur le Genie,” answered D’Harmental, “do 
you know that you will make me very vain if you continue in 
that tone ; for, take care, you have told me, or nearly so, 
that you had a great desire that I should come to your ren- 
dezvous.” 

“ I did not think I was telling you anything new, chevalier. 
It appeared to me that my letter would leave you no doubt 
as to the desire I felt of seeing you.” 

“ This desire, which I only admit because you confess it, 
and I am too gallant to contradict you — has it not made you 
promise in your letter more than is in your power to keep ?” 

“ Make a trial of my science j that will give you a test of 
my power.” 

“ Oh, mon Dieu ! I will confine myself to the simplest 
thing. You say you are acquainted with the past, the present 
and the future. Tell me my fortune.” 

“ Nothing easier ; give me your hand.” 

D’Harmental did what was asked of him. 

“Sir,” said the stranger, after a moment’s examination, “I 
see very legibly written by the direction of the ‘ adducta,’ 
and by the arrangement of the longitudinal lines of the palm, 
five words, in which are included the history of your life. 


32 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


These words are, courage, ambition, disappointment, love, 
and treason.” 

“ Peste !” interrupted the chevalier, “ I did not know that 
the genii studied anatomy so deeply, and were obliged to take 
their degrees like a Bachelor of Salamanca !’’ 

“ Genii know all that men know, and many other things 
besides, chevalier.” 

“ Well, then, what mean these words, at once so sonorous 
and so opposite ? and what do they teach you of me in the 
past, my very learned genius ?” 

“ They teach me that it is by your courage alone that you 
gained the rank of colonel, which you occupied in the army 
in Flanders ; that this rank awakened your ambition ; that 
this ambition has been followed by a disappointment ; that 
you hoped to console yourself for this disappointment by 
love ; but that love, like fortune, is subject to treachery, and 
that you have been betrayed.” 

“ Not bad,” said the chevalier ; and the Sybil of Cuma 
could not have got out of it better. A little vague, as in all 
horoscopes, but a great fund of truth, nevertheless. Let us 
come to the present, beautiful mask.” 

“ The present, chevalier ? Let us speak softly of it, for it 
smells terribly of the Bastille.” 

The chevalier started in spite of himself, for he believed 
that no one except the actors wl o had played a part in it 
could know his adventure of the morning. 

“There are at this hour,” continued the stranger, “ two 
brave gentlemen lying sadly in their beds, whilst we chat 
gaily at the ball ; and that because a certain Chevalier 
d’Harmental, a great listener at doors, did not remember a 
hemistich of Virgil.” 

“And what is this hemistich?” asked the chevalier, more 
and more astonished. 

“ ‘ Facilis descensus Averni,’ ” said the mask, laughing. 

“My dear genius,” cried the chevalier, trying to peep 
through the openings in the stranger’s mask, “ that, allow me 
to inform you, is a quotation rather masculine.” 

“ Do you not know that genii are of both sexes ?” 

“ Yes; but I had never heard that they quoted the Æneid 
so fluently.” 


A BAL^MASQUE OF THE PERIOD,— THE BAT. 33 

** Is not the quotation appropriate ? You speak to me of 
the Sybil of Cuma; I answer you in her language. You ask 
for existing things ; I give them you. But you mortals are 
never satisfied.” 

“No ; for I confess that this knowledge of the past and 
the present inspires me with a terrible desire to know the 
future.” 

“ There are always two futures,” said the mask ; “ there 
is the future of weak minds, and the future of strong minds. 
God has given man free will that he might choose. Your 
future depends on yourself.” 

“ But we must know these two futures to choose the best.’* 

“ Well, there is one which awaits you, somewhere in the 
environs of Nevers, in the depth of the country, amongst the 
rabbits of your warren, and the fowls of your poultry-yard. 
I'his one will conduct you straight to the magistrate’s bench 
of your parish. It is an easy ambition, and you have only to 
let yourself go to attain it. You are on the road.” 

“ And the other ?” replied the chevalier, visibly piqued at 
the supposition that in any case such a future could be his. 

“ The other,” said the stranger, leaning her arm on that of 
the young man, and fixing her eyes on him through her 
mask ; “ the other will throw you back into noise and light — 
will make you one of the actors in the game which is playing 
in the world, and, whether you gain or lose, will leave you at 
least the renown of a great player.” 

“ If I lose, what shall I lose ?” asked the chevalier. 

“ Life, probably.” 

The chevalier tossed his head contemptuously. 

“ And if I win ?” added he. 

“What do you say to the rank of colonel of horse, the 
title of Grandee of Spain, and the order of the Saint Esprit, 
without counting the field-marshal’s baton in prospective ?” 

“ I say that the prize is worth the stake, and that if you 
can prove to me that you can keep your promise, I am your 
man.” 

“ This proof,” replied the mask, “ must be given you by 
another, and if you wish to have it you must follow me.” 

“ Oh !” said D’Harmental, “ am I deceived, and are you 
but a genius of the second order — a subaltern spirit, an inter- 

3 


THE CONSPIRA TOES. 


34 

mediate power ? Diable ! this would take away a little of 
my consideration for you ” 

“ What does it matter if I am subject to some great en- 
chantress, and she has sent me to you ?” 

“ I warn you that I do not treat with ambassadors.” 

“ My mission is to conduct you to her.” 

“ Then I shall see her ?” 

“ Face to face.” 

“ Let us go, then.” 

“ Chevalier, you go quickly to the work ; you forget thav 
before all initiations there are certain indispensable cere- 
monies to secure the discretion of the initiated.” 

“ What must I do ?” 

“ You must allow your eyes to be bandaged, and let me 
lead you where I like. When arrived at the door of the 
temple, you must take a solemn oath to reveal nothing con- 
perning the things you may hear, or the people you may 
^ee.” 

I am ready to swear by the Styx,” said D’Harmental, 
faughing. 

“ Np, chevalier,” said the mask, in a grave voice ; “ swear 
^nly by your honour ; you are known, and that will suffice.” 

“ And when I have taken this oath,” asked the chevalier, 
after an instant's reflection, will it be permitted to me to 
retire, if the proposals made are not such as a gentleman 
may entertain ?” 

“ Your conscience will be your soje arbiter, and your w’ord 
the only pledge demanded of you.” 

‘‘ I am ready,” said the chevalier. 

“ Let us go, then,” said the mask. 

The chevalier prepared to cross the room in a straight line 
towards the door; but perceiving three of his friends, who 
might have stopped him on the way, he made a turn, and 
described a curve which would bring him to the same end. 

“ What are you doing ?” asked the mask. 

“ I am avoiding some one who might detain us.” 

Ah !” said the mask, “ I began to fear.” 

** Fear what ?” asked D’Harmental. 

To fear that your ardour was diminished in the propor- 
tion of the diagonal to the two sides of a square.” 


A BAL-MASQUE OF THE PER10D.--THE BAT. 35 

“ Pardieu !” said D’Harmental, “ this is the first time, I 
believe, that ever a rendezvous was given to a gentleman at 
an opera ball to talk anatomy, ancient literature, and mathe- 
matics. I am sorry to say so, but you are the most pedantic 
genius I ever met m my life. ” 

The bat burst out laughing, but made no reply to this 
sally, in which was betrayed the spite of the chevalier at 
not being able to recognise a person who appeared to be so 
well acquainted with his adventures ; but as this only added 
to his curiosity, both descended in equal haste, and found 
themselves in the vestibule. 

“ What road shall we take ?” asked the chevalier. “ Shall 
we travel under- ground, or in a car drawn by griffins?” 

“ With your permission, chevalier, we will simply go in a 
carriage ; and though you appear to doubt it, I am a woman, 
and rather afraid of the dark.” 

“ Permit me, then, to call my carriage,” said the chevalier. 

“ Not at all ; I have my own.” 

“ Call it then.” 

“With your permission, chevalier, we will not be more 
proud than Mahomet with the mountain ; and as my car- 
riage cannot come to us, we will go to it.” 

At these words the bat drew the chevalier into the Rue 
St Honoré. A carriage without armorial bearings, with two 
dark-coloured horses, waited at the corner of the street The 
coachman was on his seat, enveloped in a great cape which 
hid the lower part of his face, while a three-cornered hat 
covered his forehead and eyes. A footman held the door 
open with one hand, and with the other held his handkerchief 
so as to conceal his face. 

“ Get in,” said the mask. 

D’Harmental hesitated a moment The anxiety of the 
servants to preserve their incognito, the carriage without 
blazon, the obscure place where it was drawn up, and the 
advanced hour of the night, all inspired the chevalier with a 
sentiment of mistrust ; but reflecting that he gave his arm to 
a woman, and had a sword by his side, he got in boldly. The 
mask sat down by him, and the footman closed the door. 

“ Well, are we not going to start ?” said the chevalier, 
seeing that the carriage remained motionless. 


3—2 


36 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


** There remains a little precaution to be taken,” said the 
mask, drawing a silk handkerchief from her pocket. 

‘‘ Ah ! yes, true,” said D’Harmental ; “ I had forgotten. 
I give myself up to you with confidence.” 

And he advanced his head. The unknown bandaged his 
eyes ; then said, — 

“ Chevalier, you give me your word of honour not to re- 
move this bandage till I give you permission ?” 

“ I do.” 

** It is well.” 

Then, raising the glass in front, she said to the coachman,— 

“ You know where, Monsieur le Comte.” 

And the carriage started at a gallop. 


THE ARSENAL, 


37 


CHAPTER V. 

THE ARSENAL. 

They both maintained a profound silence during the route. 
This adventure, which at first had presented itself under the 
appearance of an amorous intrigue, had soon assumed a 
graver aspect, and appeared to turn towards political machin- 
ations. If this new aspect did not frighten the chevalier, at 
least it gave him matter for reflection. There is a moment 
in the affairs of every man which decides upon his future. 
This moment, however important it may be, is rarely pre- 
pared by calculation or directed by will. It is almost always 
chance which takes a man as the wind does a leaf, and throws 
him into some new and unknown path, where, once entered, 
he is obliged to obey a superior force, and where, while be- 
lieving himself free, he is but the slave of circumstances and 
the plaything of events. 

It was thus with the chevalier. Interest and gratitude 
attached him to the party of the old court. D’Harmental, 
in consequence, had not calculated the good or the harm that 
Madame de Maintenon had done France. He did not weigh 
in the balance of genealogy Monsieur de Maine and Monsieur 
d’Orleans. He felt that he must devote his life to those 
who had raised him from obscurity, and knowing the old 
king’s will, regarded as a usurpation Monsieur d’Orleans’ 
accession to the regency. 

Fully expecting an armed reaction against this power, he 
looked around for the standard which he should follow. 
Nothing that he expected happened ; Spain had not even 
protested. Monsieur de Maine, fatigued by his short contest, 
had retired into the shade. Monsieur de Toulouse, good, 
easy, and almost ashamed of the favours which had fallen to 
the share of himself and his elder brother, would not permit 
even the supposition that he could put himself at the head of 
a party. The Marshal de Villeroy had made a feeble and 


38 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


system less opposition. Villars went to no one, but waited 
for some one to come to him. D’Axelles had changed sides, 
and had accepted the post of secretary for foreign affairs. 
The dukes and peers took patience, and paid court to the 
regent, in the hope that he would at last take away from the 
Dukes of Maine and Toulouse the precedence which Louis 
XIV. had given them. 

Finally, there was discontent with, and even opposition to, 
the government of the Due d’Orleans, but all impalpable and 
disjointed. This is what D’Harmental had seen, and what 
had resheathed his half-drawn sword : he thought he was the 
only one who saw another issue to affairs, and he gradually 
came to the conclusion that that issue had no existence, ex- 
cept in his own imagination, since those who should have 
been most interested in that result seemed to regard it as so 
impossible, that they did not even attempt to attain to it. 

Although the carriage had been on the road 'nearly half- 
an-hour, the chevalier had not found it long : so deep were 
his reflections, that, even if his eyes had not been bandaged, 
he would have been equally ignorant of what streets they 
passed through. 

At length he heard the wheels rumbling as if they were 
passing under an arch. He heard the grating of hinges 
as the gate opened to admit him, and closed behind him, 
and directly after, the carriage, having described a semi- 
circle, stopped. 

“ Chevalier,” said his guide, “if you have any fear, there 
is still time to draw back ; if, on the contrary, you have not 
changed your resolution, come with me.” 

D’Harmental’s only answer was to extend his hand. 

The footman opened the door ; the unknown got out first, 
and then assisted the chevalier. His feet soon encountered 
some steps ; he mounted six — still conducted by the masked 
lady — crossed a vestibule, passed through a corridor, and 
entered a room. 

“ We are now arrived,” said the unknown, “ you remember 
our conditions ; you are free to accept or refuse a part in the 
piece about to be played, but, in case of a refusal, you pro- 
mise not to divulge anything you may see or hear.” 

“ I swear it on my honour,” replied the chevalier. 


THE ARSENAL 


39 


“ Now, sit down ; wait in this room, and do not remove 
the bandage till you hear two o’clock strike. You have not 
long to wait.’’ 

At these words his conductress left him. Two o’clock soon 
struck, and the chevalier tore off the bandage. He was alone 
in the most marvellous boudoir possible to imagine. It was 
small and octagonal, hung with lilac and silver, with furniture 
and portieres of tapestry. Buhl tables, covered with splendid 
china ; a Persian carpet, and the ceiling painted by Watteau, 
who was then coming into fashion. At this sight, the che- 
valier found it difficult to believe that he had been sum- 
moned on grave matters, and almost returned to his first 
ideas. 

At this moment a door opened in the tapestry, and there 
appeared a w^oman who, in the fantastic pre-occupation of his 
spirit, D’Harmental might have taken for a fairy, so slight, 
small, and delicate was her figure. She was dressed in pearl 
gray satin, covered with bouquets, so beautifully embroidered 
that, at a short distance, they appeared like natural flow'ers ; 
the flounces, ruffles, and head-dress were of English point ; it 
was fastened with pearls and diamonds. Her face was 
covered with a half- mask of black velvet, from which hung 
a deep black lace. D’Harmcntal bowed, for there was some- 
thing royal in the walk and manner of this woman which 
showed him that the other had been only an envoy. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ have I really, as I begin to believe, 
quitted the earth for the land of spirits, and are you the 
powerful fairy to whom this beautiful palace belongs ?” 

“ Alas ! chevalier,” replied the masked lady, in a sweet 
but decided voice, “ I am not a powerful fairy, but, on the 
contrary, a poor princess, persecuted by a wicked enchanter, 
who has taken from me my crown, and oppresses my king- 
dom. Thus, you see, I am seeking a brave knight to de- 
liver me, and your renown has led me to address myself 
to you.” 

“ If my life could restore you your past power, madame,” 
replied D’Harmental, “ speak ; I am ready to risk it with joy. 
Who is this enchanter that I must combat ; this giant that I 
must destroy ? Since you have chosen me above all, I will 
prove myself worthy of the honour. From this moment I 
engage my word, even if it cost me my life.” 


40 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


“ If you lose your life, chevalier, it will be in good com- 
pany,” said the lady, untying her mask, and discovering her 
face, “ for you would lose it with the son of Louis XIV., and 
the grand-daughter of the great Conde.” 

“ Madame la Duchesse de Maine 1” cried D’Harmental, 
falling on one knee; “will your highness pardon me, if, 
not knowing you, I have said anything which may fall short 
of the profound respect I feel for you.” 

“ You have said nothing for which I am not proud and 
grateful, chevalier, but, perhaps, you now repent. If so, you 
are at liberty to withdraw.” 

“ Heaven forbid, madame, that having had the honour to 
engage my life in the service of so great and noble a princess, 

I should deprive myself of the greatest honour I ever dared 
to hope for. No, madame ; take seriously, I beg, what I 
offered half in jest ; my arm, my sword, and my life.” 

“ I see,”said the Duchesse de Maine, with that smile which 
gave her such power over all who approached her, “that 
the Baron de Valef did not deceive me, and you are such as 
he described. Come, I will present you to our friends.” 

The duchesse went first, D’ Harmental followed, astonished 
at what had passed, but fully resolved, partly from pride, 
partly from conviction, not to withdraw a step. 

The duchesse conducted him to a room where four new per- 
sonages awaited him. These were the Cardinal de Polignac, 
the Marquis de Pompadour, Monsieur de Malezieux, and the 
Abbé Brigaud- 

The Cardinal de Polignac was supposed to be the lover of 
Madame de Maine. He was a handsome prelate, from forty 
to forty-five years of age ; always dressed with the greatest 
care, with an unctuous voice, a cold face, and a timid heart ; 
devoured by ambition, which was eternally combated by the 
weakness of his character, which always drew him back 
where he should advance ; of high birth, as his name indi- 
cated, very learned for a cardinal, and very well informed for 
a nobleman. 

Monsieur de Pompadour was a man of from forty-five to 
fifty, who had been a minion of the dauphin’s, the son of 
Louis XIV,, and who had so great a love for his whole 
family, that, seeing with grief that the regent was going to 


THE ARSENAL, 


41 


declare war against Philip V., he had thrown himself, body 
and soul, into the Due de Maine’s party. Proud and disin- 
terested, he had given a rare example of loyalty, in sending 
back to the regent the brevet of his pensions and those of 
his wife, and in refusing for himself and the Marquis de 
Courcillon, his son-in-law, every place offered to them. 

Monsieur de Malezieux was a man of from sixty to sixty- 
five, Chancellor of Dombes and Lord of Chatenay : he owed 
this double title to the gratitude of M. de Maine, whose 
education he had conducted. A poet, a musician, an author 
of small comedies, which 1 e played himself with infinite 
spirit ; born for an idle and intellectual life ; always occupied 
in procuring pleasure for others, and above all for Madame 
de Maine, whom he adored, he was a type of the Sybarite of 
the eighteenth century, but, like the Sybarites who, drawn by 
the aspect of beauty, followed Cleopatra to Actium, and 
were killed around her, he Avould have followed his dear 
Bénédicte through fire and water, and, at a word from her, 
would, without hesitation, and almost without regret, have 
thrown himself from the towers of Notre Dame. 

The Abbé Brigaud was the son of a Lyons merchant 
His father, who was commercially related with the court of 
Spain, was charged to make overtures, as if on his own 
account, for the marriage of the young Louis XIV. with the 
young Maria Theresa of Austria. If these overtures had 
been badly received, the ministers of France would have 
disavowed them ; but they were well received, and they 
supported them. 

The marriage took place ; and, as the little Brigaud was 
born about the same time as the dauphin, he asked, in re- 
compense, that the king’s son should stand godfather to his 
child, which was granted to him. He then made acquaint- 
ance with the Marquis de Pompadour, who, as we have said, 
was one of the pages of honour. When he was of an age to 
decide on his profession, he joined the Fathers of the Oratory. 
He was a clever and an ambitious man, but, as often happens 
to the greatest geniuses, he had never had an opportunity of 
making himself known. 

Some time before the period of which we are writing, he 
met the Marquis de Pompadour, who was seeking a man of 


42 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


spirit and enterprise as the secretary of Madame de Maine. 
He told him to what the situation would expose him at the 
present time. Brigand weighed for an instant the good and 
evil chances, and, as the former appeared to predominate, he 
accepted it. 

Of these four men, D’Harmental only knew the Marquis 
de Pompadour, whom he had often met at the house of 
Monsieur de Courcillon, his son in-law, a distant relation of 
the D’Harmentals. 

When D’Harmental entered the room, Monsieur de Polig- 
nac, Monsieur de Malezieux, and Monsieur de Pompadour 
were standing talking at the fireplace, and the Abbé Brigand 
was seated at a table classifying some papers. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the Duchesse de Maine, “ here is the 
brave champion of whom the Baron de Valef has spoken to 
us, and who has been brought here by your dear De Launay, 
Monsieur de Malezieux. If his name and antecedents are 
not sufficient to stand sponsor for him, I will answer for him 
personally.” 

“ Presented thus by your highness,” said Malezieux, “we 
shall see in him not only a companion, but a chief, whom we 
are ready to follow wherever he may lead.” 

“ My dear D’Harmental,” said the Marquis de Pompadour, 
extending his hand to him, “ we were already relations, we 
are now almost brothers.” 

“ Welcome, monsieur !” said the Cardinal de Polignac, in 
the unctuous tone habitual to him, and which contrasted so 
strangely with the coldness of his countenance. 

The Abbé Brigand raised his head with a movement re- 
sembling that of a serpent, and fixed on D’Harmental two 
little eyes, brilliant as those of the lynx. 

“Gentlemen,” said D’Harmental, after having answered 
each of them by a bow, “ I am new and strange amongst you, 
and, above all, ignorant of what is passing, or in what manner 
I can serve you j but though my word has only been engaged 
to you for a few minutes, my devotion to your cause is of 
many years’ standing. I beg you, therefore, to grant me the 
confidence so graciously claimed for me by her highness. All 
that I shall ask after that will be a speedy occasion to prove 
myself worthy of it.” 


THE ARSENAL. 


43 


** Well saia . cried the Duchesse de Maine ; ** commend 
me to a soldier for going straight to the point ! No, Monsieur 
D’Harmental, we will have no secrets from you, and the op- 
portunity you require, and which will place each of us in our 
proper position ” 

“ Excuse me, Madame la Duchesse,” interrupted the car- 
dinal, who was playing uneasily with his necktie, “ but, from 
your manner, the chevalier will think that the affair is a con- 
spiracy.” 

“ And what is it, then, cardinal ?” asked the duchess, im- 
patiently. 

“ It is,” said the cardinal, “ a council, secret, it is true, but 
in no degree reprehensible, in which we only seek a means 
of remedying the misfortunes of the state, and enlightening 
France on her true interests, by recalling the last will of the 
king, Louis XIV.” 

Stay, cardinal !” said the duchess, stamping her foot; 
‘‘you will kill me with impatience by your circumlocutions. 
Chevalier,” continued she, addressing D’Harmental, “ do not 
listen to his eminence, who at this moment, doubtless, is 
thinking of his Lucrece. If it had been a simple council, 
the talents of his eminence would soon have extricated us 
from our troubles, without the necessity of applying to you ; 
but it is a bonâ fide conspiracy against the regent — a con- 
spiracy which numbers the King of Spain, Cardinal Alberoni, 
the Due de Maine, myself, the Marquis de Pompadour, 
Monsieur de Malezieux, l’Abbé Brigaud, Valef, yourself, the 
cardinal himself the president ; and which will include half 
the parliament and three parts of France. This is the matter 
in hand, chevalier. Are you content, cardinal ? Have I 
spoken clearly, gentlemen ?” 

“ Madame ” murmured Malezieux, joining his hands 

before her with more devotion than he would have, done be- 
fore the Virgin. 

“No, no; stop, Malezieux,” said the duchess, “but the 
cardinal enrages me with his half-measures. Mon Dieu ! are 
these eternal waverings worthy of a man ? For myself, I do 
not ask a sword, I do not ask a dagger ; give me but a nail, 
and I, a woman, and almost a dwarf, will go, like a new Jael, 
and drive it into the temple of this other Sisera. Then all 


44 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


will be finished; and, if I fail, no one but mjself will be 
compromised.” 

Monsieur de Polignac sighed deeply; Pompadour burst 
out laughing ; Malezieux tried to calm the duchess ; and 
Brigand bent his head, and went on writing as if he had 
heard nothing. As to D’Harmental, he would have kissed 
the hem of her dress, so superior was this woman, in his 
eyes, to the four men who surrounded her. 

At this moment they heard the sound of a carriage, which 
drove into the courtyard and stopped at the door. The person 
expected was doubtless some one of importance, for there was 
an instant silence, and the Duchesse de Maine, in her impa- 
tience, went herself to open the door. 

“Well?” asked she. 

“ He is here,” said a voice, which D’Harmental recognised 
as that of the Bat. 

“ Enter, enter, prince,” said the duchess ; “ we wait for 

wrwii W 


THE PRINCE DE CELLAMARE. 


45 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE PRINCE DE CELLAMARE. 

At this invitation there entered a tall, thin, grave man, with 
a sunburnt complexion, who at a single glance took in every- 
thing in the room, animate and inanimate. The chevalier 
recognised the ambassador of their Catholic majesties, the 
Prince de Celia mare. 

“Well, prince,” asked the duchess, “what have you to 
tell us ?” 

“ I have to tell you, madame,” replied the prince, kissing 
her hand respectfully, and throwing his cloak on a chair, 
“ that your highness had better change coachmen. 1 pre- 
dict misfortune if you retain in your service the fellow who 
drove me here. He seems to me to be some one employed 
by the regent to break the necks of your highness and all 
your companions.” 

Every one began to laugh, and particularly the coachman 
himself, who, without ceremony, had entered behind the 
prince ; and who, throwing his hat and cloak on a seat, 
showed himself a man of high bearing, from thirty-five to 
forty years old, with the lower part of his face hidden by a 
black handkerchief. 

“ Do you hear, mv dear Laval, what the prince says of 
you ?” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Laval ; “ it is worth while to give him 
Montmorencies to be treated like that. Ah, M. le Prince, 
the first gentlemen in France are not good enough for your 
coachmen ! Peste ! you are difficult to please. Have you 
many coachmen at Naples who date from Robert the 
Strong ?” 

“ What ! is it you, my dear count ?” said the prince, hold- 
ing out his hand to him 

“ Myself, prince ! Madame la Duchesse sent away her 
coachman to keep Lent in his own family, and engaged me 
for this night. She thought it safer ” 


46 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


“ And Madame la Duchesse did right,” said the cardinal 
“ One cannot take too many precautions.” 

“ Ah, your eminence,” said Laval, “ I should like to know 
if you would be of the same opinion after passing half the 
night on the box of a carriage, first to fetch M. d’Harmental 
from the opera ball, and then to take the prince from the 
Hôtel Colbert.” 

“ What !” said D’Harmental, “ was it you, Monsieur le 
Comte, who had the goodness ” 

“Yes, young man,” replied Laval; “and I would have 
gone to the end of the world to bring you here, for I know 
you. You are a gallant gentleman ; you were one of the first 
to enter Denain, and you took Albemarle. You were for- 
tunate enough not to leave half your jaw there, as I did in 
Italy. You were right, for it would have been a further 
motive for taking away your regiment, which they have done, 
however.” 

“ We will restore you that a hundredfold,” said the duchess; 
“ but now let us speak of Spain. Prince, you have news from 
Alberoni, Pompadour tells me.” 

“ Yes, your highness.” 

“ What are they ?” 

“ Both good and bad. His majesty Philip V. is in one 
of his melancholy moods, and will not determine upon any- 
thing. He will not believe in the treaty of the quadruple 
alliance.” 

“ Will not believe in it !” cried the duchess ; “ and the 
treaty ought to be signed now. In a week Dubois will have 
brought it here.” 

“ I know it, your highness,” replied Cellamare, coldly ; 
“but his Catholic majesty does not” 

“ Then he abandons us ?” 

“ Almost” 

“ What becomes, then, of the queen’s fine promises, and 
the empire she pretends to have over her husband ?” 

“ She promises to prove it to you, madame,” replied the 
prince, “ when something is done.” 

“ Yes,” said the Cardinal de Polignac ; “and then she will 
fail in that promise.” 

“ No, your eminence ! I will answer for her.’’ 


THE PRINCE DE CELLAMARE. 


47 


** What I see most clearly in all this is,” said Laval, “ that 
we must compromise the king. Once compromised, he must 
go on.” 

“ Now, then,” said Cellamare, “we are coming to business.” 

“ But how to compromise him,” asked the Duchesse de 
Maine, “ without a letter from hin;, without even a verbal 
message, and at five hundred leagues’ distance ?” 

“ Has he not his representative at Paris, and is not that 
representative in your house at this very moment, madame ?” 

“ Prince,” said the duchess, “ you have more extended 
powers than you are willing to admit.” 

“ No; my powers are limited to telling you that the citadel 
of Toledo and the fortress of Saragossa are at your service. 
Find the means of making the regent enter there, and their 
Catholic majesties will close the door on him so securely 
that he will not leave it again, I promise you.” 

“ It is impossible,” said Monsieur de Polignac. 

“Impossible! and why ?” cried D’Harmental. “On the 
contrary, what is more simple? Nothing is necessary but 
eight or ten determined men, a w^ell-closed carriage, and 
relays to Bayonne.” 

“ I have already offered to undertake it,” said LavaL 

“And I,” said Pompadour. 

“ You cannot,” said the duchess; “the regent knows you; 
and if the thing failed, you would be lost.” 

“ It is a pity,” said Cellamare, coldly ; “ for, once arrived 
at Toledo or Saragossa, there is greatness in store for him 
who shall havie succeeded.” 

“ And the blue ribbon,” added Madame de Maine, “ on 
his return to Paris.’' 

Oh, silênee, I beg, madame,” said D’Harmental; “for if 
your highness says such things, you give to devotion the air 
of ambition, and rob it of all its meric. I was going to offer 
myself for the enterprise — I, w'ho am unknown to the regent 
— but now I hesitate ; and yet I venture to believe myse’^ 
worthy of the confidence of your highness, and able to jus- 
tify it.” 

“ What, chevalier !” cried the duchess, “ you would 
risk ” 

“ My life ; it is all I have to risk. I thought I had already 


4 » 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


offered it, and that your highness had accepted it. Was 1 
mistaken ?” 

“No, no, chevalier,” said the duchess quickly; “and you 
are a brave and loyal gentleman. I have always believed in 
presentiments, and from the moment Valef pronounced your 
name, telling me that you were what I find you to be, I felt 
of what assistance you would be to us. Gentlemen, you hear 
what the chevalier says ; in what can you aid him ?’ 

“ In whatever he may want,” said Laval and Pompadour. 

“The coffers of their Catholic majesties are at his dis- 
posal,” said the Prince de Cellamare, “ and he may make 
free use of them.” 

“ I thank you,” said D’Harmental, turning towards the 
Comte de Laval and the Marquis de Pompadour ; “ but, 
known as you are, you would only make the enterprise more 
difficult Occupy yourselves only in obtaining for me a pass- 
port for Spain, as if I had the charge of some prisoner of 
importance ; that ought to be easy.” 

“ I undertake it,” said the Abbé Brigand : “ I will get 
from D’Argenson a paper all prepared, which will only have 
to be filled in.” 

“Excellent Brigand,” said Pompadour; “he does not 
speak often, but he speaks to the purpose.” 

“ It is he who should be made cardinal,” said the duchess, 
“ rather than certain great lords of my acquaintance ; but as 
soon as we can dispose of the blue and the red, be easy, 
gentlemen, we shall not be miserly. Now, chevalier, you 
have heard what the prince said. If you want money ” 

“Unfortunately,” replied D’Harmental, “I am not rich 
enough to refuse his excellency’s offer, and so soon as I have 
arrived at the end of about a million pistoles which I have at 
home, I must have recourse to you.” 

“ To him, to me, to us all, chevalier, for each one in such 
circumstances should tax himself according to his means. 
I have little ready money, but I have many diamonds and 
pearls ; therefore want for nothing, I beg. All the world has 
not your disinterestedness, and there is devotion which must 
be bought.” 

“ Above all, be prudent,” said the cardinal. 

“ Do not be uneasy,” replied D’Harmental, contemptuously. 


THE PRINCE DE CELLAMARE. 


49 


“ I have sufficient grounds of complaint against the regent 
for it to be believed, if I were taken, that it was an affair 
between him and me, and that my vengeance was entirely 
personal.” 

“ But,” said the Comte de Laval, “ you must have a kind 
of lieutenant in this enterprise, some one on whom you can 
count. Have you any one ?” 

I think so,” replied D’Harmental ; but I must be in- 
formed each morning what the regent will do in the evening. 
Monsieur le Prince de Cellamare, as ambassador, must have 
his secret police.” 

* ' Yes,” said the prince, embarrassed, “ I have some people 
who give me an account.” 

“ That is exactly it,” said D’HarmentaL 

“ Where do you lodge ?” asked the cardinal 

“At my own house, monseigneur. Rue de Richelieu, 
No. 74.” 

“And how long have you lived there?” 

“ Three years.” 

“ Then you are too well known there, monsieur ; you must 
change quarters. The people whom you receive are known, 
and the sight of strange faces would give rise to questions.” 

“ This time your eminence is right,” said D’Harmental 
“I will seek another lodging in some retired neighbour- 
hood.” 

“ I undertake it,” said Brigand ; “ my costume does not 
excite suspicions. I will engage you a lodging as if it was 
destined for a young man from the country who has been 
recommended to me, and who has come to occupy some 
place in an office.” 

“ Truly, my dear Brigand,” said the Marquis de Pompa- 
dour, “you are like the princess in the ‘Arabian Nights,^ 
W'ho never opened her mouth but to drop pearls.” 

“ Well, it is a settled thing. Monsieur l’Abbé,” said 
D’Harmental ; “ I reckon on you, and I shall announce at 
home that I am going to leave Paris for a three months’ 
trip.” 

“ Everything is settled then,” said the Duchesse de Maine 
joyfully. “ This is the first time that I have been able to see 
clearly into our affairs, chevalier, and we owe it to you. I 
shall not forget it.” 


4 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


SO 

“ Gentlemen,” said Malezieux, pulling out bis watch, ** I 
would observe that it is four o’clock in the morning, and that 
we shall kill our dear duchess with fatigue.” 

“ You are mistaken,” said the duchess ; “ such nights rest 
me, and it is long since I have passed one so good.” 

“ Prince,” said Laval, “ you must be contented with the 
coachman whom you wished discharged, unless you would 
prefer driving yourself, or going on foot.” 

“ No, indeed,” said the prince, “ I will risk it. I am a 
Neapolitan, and believe in omens. If you overturn me it 
will be a sign that we must stay where we are — if you conduct 
me safely it will be a sign that we may go on.” 

“ Pompadour, you must take back Monsieur d’Harmental,’* 
said the duchess. 

“ Willingly,” said the marquis. “ It is a long time since 
we met, and we have a hundred things to say to each 
other.” 

“Cannot I take leave of my sprightly bat ?” asked D’Har- 
m entai ; “ for I do not forget that it is to her I owe the 
happiness of having offered my services to your highness.” 

“ De Launay,” cried the duchess, conducting the Prince 
of Cellamare to the door, “ De Launay, here is Monsieur le 
Chevalier d’Harmental, who says you are the greatest sor- 
ceress he has ever known.” 

“ Well !” said she who has left us such charming memoirs, 
under the name of Madame de Staël, “ do you believe in my 
prophecies now. Monsieur le Chevalier ?” 

' “ I believe, because I hope,” replied the chevalier. “ But 
nôw that I know the fairy that sent you, it is not your pre- 
dictions that astonish me the most. How were you so well 
informed about the past, and, above all, of the present ?” 

“Well, De Launay, be kind, and do not torment the 
chevalier any longer, or he will believe us to be two witches, 
and be afraid of us.” 

“ Was there not one of your friends, chevalier,” asked De 
Launay, “ who left you this morning in the Bois de Boulogne 
to come and say adieu to us.” 

“Valef! It is Valefl” cried D’Harmental. “I under- 
stand now.” 

“ In the place of Œdipus you would have been devoured 
ten times over by the Sphinx.” 


THE PRINCE DE CELLAMARE. 


51 

** But the mathematics ; but the anatomy ; but Virgil ?’* 
replied D’Harmental. 

“ Do you not know, chevalier,” said Malezieux, mixing in 
the conversation, “ that we never call her anything here but 
our ‘savante?’ with the exception of Chaulieu, however, who 
calls her his flirt, and his coquette ; but all as a poetical 
license. We let her loose the other day on Du Vernay, our 
doctor, and she beat him at anatomy.” 

“ And,” said the Marquis de Pompadour, taking D’Har- 
mental’s arm to lead him away, “ the good man in his dis- 
appointment declared that there was no other girl in France 
who understood the human frame so well.” 

“ Ah !” said the Abbé Brigaud, folding his papers, “ here is 
the first savant on record who has been known to make a 
bon-mot. It is true that he did not intend it.” 

And D’Harmental and Pompadour, having taken leave of 
the duchess, retired laughing, followed by the Abbé Brigaud, 
who reckoned on them to drive him home. 

“ Well,” said Madame du Maine, addressing the Cardinal 
de Polignac, “ does your eminence still find it such a terrible 
thing to conspire ?” 

“ Madame,” replied the cardinal, who could not understand 
that any one could laugh when their head was in danger, 
“ I will ask you the same question when we are all in the 
Bastille.” 

And he went away with the good chancellor, deploring the 
ill-luck which had thrown him into such a rash enterprise. 

The duchess looked after him with a contempt which 
she could not disguise : then, when she was alone with De 
Launay : 

“ My dear Sophy,” said she, “ let us put out our lanthorn, 
for I think we have found a man,” 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


S2 


CHAPTER VIL 

ALBERONL 

When D’Harmental awoke, he wondered if all had been a 
dream. Events had, during the last thirty-six hours, suc- 
ceeded each other with such rapidity, that he had been 
carried away, as by a whirlpool, without knowing where he 
was going. Now for the first time he had leisure to reflect 
on the past and the future. 

These were times in which every one conspired more or 
less. We know the natural bent of the mind in such a case. 
The first feeling we experience, after having made an engage- 
ment in a moment of exaltation, is one almost of regret for 
having been so forward- Little by little we become fami- 
liarized with the idea of the dangers we are running. 
Imagination removes them from our sight, and presents 
instead the ambitions we may realize. Pride soon becomes 
mingled with it, as we think that we have become a secret 
power in the State. We walk along proudly, with head 
erect, passing contemptuously those who lead an ordinary 
life ; we cradle ourselves in our hopes, and wake one morn- 
ing conquering or conquered ; carried on the shoulders of 
the people, or broken by the wheels of that machine called 
the government 

Thus it was with D’Harmental After a few moments* 
reflection, he saw things under the same aspect as he had 
done the day before, and congratulated himself upon having 
taken the highest place among such people as the Montmo- 
rencies and the Polignacs. His family had transmitted to 
him much of that adventurous chivalry so much in vogue 
under Louis XIII., and which Richelieu with his scaffolds, 
and Louis XIV. with his antechambers, had not quite been 
able to destroy- There was something romantic in enlisting 
himself, a young man, under the banners of a woman, and 
that woman a grand-daughter of the great Conde. 


ALBER0N2, 


53 


D’Harmentaî lost no time in preparing to Iceep the pro- 
mises he had made, for he felt that the eyes of all the 
conspirators were upon him, and that on his courage and 
prudence depended the destinies of two kingdoms, and the 
politics of the world. At this moment the regent was the 
keystone of the arch of the European edifice ; and France 
was beginning to take, if not by arms, at least by diplomacy, 
that influence which she had unfortunately not always pre- 
served. Placed at the centre of the triangle formed by the 
three great Powers, with eyes fixed on Germany, one arm 
extended towards England, and the other towards Spain, 
ready to turn on either of these three States that should not 
treat her according to her dignity, she had assumed, under 
the Due d’Orleans, an attitude of calm strength which she 
had never had under Louis XIV. 

This arose from the division of interests consequent on 
the usurpation of William of Orange, and the accession of 
Philip V. to the throne of Spain. Faithful to his old hatred 
against the stadtholder, who had refused him his daughter, 
Louis XIV. had constantly advanced the pretensions of 
James IL, and, after his death, of the Chevalier de St. 
George. Faithful to his compact with Philip V., he had 
constantly aided his grandson against the emperor, with men 
and money ; and, weakened by this double war, he had 
been reduced to the shameful treaty of Utrecht; but at the 
death of the old king all was changed, and the regent had 
adopted a very different line of conduct. The treaty of 
Utrecht was only a truce, which had been broken from the 
moment when England and Holland did not pursue common 
interests with those of France. 

In consequence, the regent had first of all held out his 
hand to George L, and the treaty of the triple alliance had 
been signed at La Have, by Dubois, in the name of France ; 
by General Cadogan, for England ; and by the pensioner, 
Heinsiens, for Holland. This was a great step towards the 
pacification of Europe, but the interests of Austria and Spain 
were still in suspense. Charles VI. would not recognise 
Philip V. as King of Spain ; and Philip V., on his part, would 
not renounce his rights over those provinces of the Spanish 
empire which the treaty of Utrecht had given to the emperon 


54 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


It was in the hopes of bringing these things about that 
the regent had sent Dubois to I.ondon, where he was pur- 
suing the treaty of the quadruple alliance with as much 
ardour as he had that of La Haye. This treaty would have 
neutralised the pretensions of the State not approved by the 
four Powers. This was what was feared by Philip V. (or 
rather the Cardinal d’Alberoni). 

It was not thus with Alberoni ; his was one of those ex- 
traordinary fortunes which one sees, always with new aston- 
ishment, spring up around the throne ; one of those caprices 
of destiny which chance raises and destroys ; like a gigantic 
waterspout, which advances on the ocean, threatening to 
annihilate everything, but which is dispersed by a stone 
thrown from the hand of a sailor ; or an avalanche, which 
threatens to swallow towns, and fill up valleys, because a 
bird in its flight has detached a flake of snow on the summit 
of the mountain. 

Alberoni was born in a gardener’s cottage, and as a child 
he was the bell-ringer. When still a young man he ex- 
changed his smock-frock for a surplice, but was of a merry 
and jesting disposition. The Duke of Parma heard him 
laugh one day so gaily, that the poor duke, who did not 
laugh every day, asked who it was that was so merry, and 
had him called. Alberoni related to him some grotesque 
adventure. His highness laughed heartily ; and finding that 
it was pleasant to laugh sometimes, attached him to his 
person. The duke soon found that he had mind, and 
fancied that that mind was not incapable of business. 

It was at this time that the poor Bishop of Parma came 
back, deeply mortified at his reception by the generalissimo 
of the French army. The susceptibility of this envoy might 
compromise the grave interests which his highness had to 
discuss with France. His highness judged that Alberoni was 
the man to be humiliated by nothing, and he sent the abbé 
to finish the negotiation which the bishop had left unfinished. 
M. de Vendôme, who had not put himself out for a bishop, 
did not do so for an abbé, and received the second ambas- 
sador as he had the first; but, instead of following the 
example of his predecessor, he found in M. de Vendome’s 
own situation so much subject for merry jests and strange 


ALBEROm, 


SS 

praises, that the affair was finished at once, and he canie 
back to the duke with everything arranged to his desire. 

1 his was a reason for the duke to employ him a second 
time. This time Vendôme was just going to sit down to 
table, and Alberoni, instead of beginning about business, 
asked if he would taste two dishes of his cooking, went into 
the kitchen, and came back, a “ soupe au fromage ” in one 
hand, and macaroni in the other. De Vendôme found the 
soup so good, that he asked Alberoni to take some with him 
at his own table. At dessert Alberoni introduced his busi- 
ness, and profiting by the good humour of Vendôme, he 
twisted him round his finger. 

His highness was astonished. The greatest genius he had 
met with had never done so much. The next time it was 
M. de Vendôme who asked the Duke of Parma if he had 
nothing else to negotiate with him. Alberoni found means 
of persuading his sovereign that he would be more useful to 
him near Vendôme than elsewhere, and he persuaded Ven- 
dôme that he could not exist without “ soupe au fromage ” 
and macaroni. 

M. de Vendôme attached him to his service, allow’ed him 
to interfere in his most secret affairs, and made him his chief 
secretary. At this time Vendôme left for Spain. Alberoni 
put himself in communication with Madame des Ursins ; and 
vvhen Vendôme died, she gave him, near her, the same post 
he had occupied near the deceased. 

This w^as another step. I he Princesse des Ursins began 
to get old, an unpardonable crime in the eyes of Philip V. 
She resolved to place a young w’oman near the king, through 
whom she might continue to reign over him. Alberoni pro- 
posed the daughter of his old master, whom he represented 
as a child, without character, and without will, who would 
claim nothing of royalty but the name. The princess was 
taken by this promise. The marriage w^as decided on, and 
the young princess left Italy for Spain. 

Her first act of authority w^as to arrest the Princesse des ' 
Ursins, who had come to meet her in a court dress^ and to 
send her back, as she w'as, wfith her neck uncovered, in a 
bitter frost, in a carriage of which the guard had broken the 
window with his elbow, first to Burgos, and then to France, 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


S6 

where she arrived, after having been obliged to borrow fifty 
pistoles from her servants. After his first interview with 
Elizabeth Farnese, the king announced to Alberoni that he 
was prime minister. From that day, thanks to the young 
queen, who owed him everything, the ex-ringer of bells exer- 
cised an unlimited empire over Philip V. 

Now this is what Alberoni pictured to himself, having 
always prevented Philip V. from recognising the peace of 
Utrecht. If the conspiracy succeeded — if D’Harmental car- 
ried off the Due d’Orleans, and took him to the citadel of 
Toledo, or the fortress of Saragossa — Alberoni would get 
Monsieur de Maine recognised as regent, would withdraw 
France from the quadruple alliance, throw the Chevalier de 
St. George with the fleet on the English coast, and set 
Prussia, Sweden, and Russia, with whom he had a treaty ot 
alliance, at variance with Holland. The empire would then 
profit by their dispute to retake Naples and Sicily ; would 
assure Tuscany to the second son of the King of Spain ; 
would reunite the Catholic Netherlands to France, give Sar- 
dinia to the Dukes of Savoy, Commachio to the pope, and 
Mantua to the Venetians. He would make himself the soul 
of the great league of the south against the north ; and if 
Louis XV. died, would crown Philip V. king of half the 
world. 

All these things were now in the hands of a young man of 
twenty-six years of age ; and it was not astonishing that he 
should be, at first, frightened at the responsibility which 
weighed upon him. 

As he was still deep in thought, the Abbé Brigaud entered. 
He had already found a lodging for the chevalier at No. 5, 
Rue du Temps-Perdu ; a small furnished room, suitable to 
a young man who came to seek his fortune in Paris. He 
brought him also two thousand pistoles from the Prince of 
Cellamare. 

D’Harmental wished to refuse them, for it seemed as if he 
would be no longer acting according to conscience and devo- 
tion ; but Brigaud explained to him that in such an enterprise 
there are susceptibilities to conquer, and accomplices to pay ; 
and that besides, if the affair succeeded, he would have to 
set out instantly for Spain, and perhaps make his way by 


ALBERONh 


57 

force of gold. Brigaud carried away a complete suit of the 
chevalier’s, as a pattern for a fresh one suitable for a clerk in 
an office. The Abbé Brigaud was a useful man. 

D’Harmental passed the rest of the day in preparing for 
his pretended journey, and removed, in case of accident, 
every letter which might compromise a friend ; then went 
towards the Rue St. Honoré, where — thanks to La Nor- 
mande — he hoped to have news of Captain Roquefinette. 
In fact, from the moment that a lieutenant for his enterprise 
had been spoken of, he had thought of this man, who had 
given him, as his second, a proof of his careless courage. 
He had instantly recognised in him one of those adventurers 
always ready to sell the-ir blood for a good price, and who, in 
time of peace, when their swords are useless to the State, 
place them at the service of individuals. 

On becoming a conspirator one always becomes super- 
stitious, and D’Harmental fancied that it was an intervention 
of Providence which had introduced him to Roquefinette. 
The chevalier, without being a regular customer, went occa- 
sionally to the tavern of La Fillon. It was quite fashionable 
at that time to go and drink at her house. D’Harmental was 
to her neither her son, a name which she gave to all her 
“habitués,” nor her gossip, a word which she reserved for 
the Abbé Dubois, but simply Monsieur le Chevalier ; a mark 
of respect which would have been considered rather a humilia- 
tion by most of the young men of fashion. La Fillon was 
much astonished when D’Harmental asked to see one of her 
servants, called La Normande. 

“ Oh, mon Dieu ! Monsieur le Chevalier !” said she, “ I 
am really distressed; “but La Normande is waiting at a dinner 
which will last till to-morrow evening.” 

“ Plague ! what a dinner !” 

“ What is to be done ?” replied La Fillon. “ It is a 
caprice of an old friend of the houje. He will not be 
waited on by any one but her, and I cannot refuse him that 
satisfaction.” 

“ When he has money, I suppose ?” 

“ You are mistaken. I give him credit up to a certain sum. 
It is a weakness, but one cannot help being grateful. He 
started me in the world, such as you see me, monsieur — I, 


58 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


who have had in my house the best people in Paris, including 
the regent. I was only the daughter of a poor chair-bearer. 
Oh ! I am not like the greater part of your beautiful duchesses, 
who deny their origin ; nor like two-thirds of your dukes and 
peers, who fabricate genealogies for themselves. No ! what 
I am, I owe to my own merit, and I am proud of it.” 

“ Then,” said the chevalier, who was not particularly in- 
terested by La Fillon’s history, you say that La Normande 
will not have finished with this dinner till to-morrow evening?” 

“ The jolly old captain never stays less time than that at 
table, when once he is there.” 

“But, my dear présidente” (this was a name sometimes 
given to La Fillon, as a certain quid pro quo for the prési- 
dente who had the same name as herself), “ do you think, 
by chance, your captain may be my captain ?” 

“ What is yours called ?” 

“ Captain Roquefinette.” 

“ It is the same.” 

“ He is here?” 

“ In person.” 

“ Well, he is just the man I want ; and I only asked for La 
Normande to get his address.” 

“ Then all is right,” said the présidente. 

“ Have the kindness to send for him.” 

“ Oh ! he would not come down for the regent himself. If 
you want to see him you must go up.” 

“Where?” 

“ At No. 2, where you supped the other evening with the 
Baron de Valef. Oh ! when he has money, nothing is too 
good for him. Although he is but a captain, he has the heart 
of a king.” 

“ Better and better,” said D’Harmental, mounting the stair- 
case, without being deterred by the recollection of the mis- 
adventure which had happened to him in that room ; “ that 
is exactly what I want.” 

If D’Harmental had not known the room in question, the 
voice of the captain would soon have served him for a guide. 

“Now, my little loves,” said he, “the third and last verse, 
and together in the chorus.” Then he began singing in a 
magnificent bass voice, and four or five female voices took 
up the chorus. 


ALBERONL 


59 

** That is better,” said the captain ; ** now let us have the 
* Battle of Malplaquet.’ ” 

“No, no,” said a voice; “I have had enough of your 
battle.” 

“What ! enough of it — a battle I was at myself?” 

“ That is nothing to me. I like a romance better than all 
your wicked battle-songs, full of oaths.” And she began to 
sing “ Linval loved Arsène ” 

“ Silence !” said the captain. “ Am I not master here ? 
As long as I have any money I will be served as I like. 
When I have no more, that will be another thing ; then you 
may sing what you like ; I shall have nothing to say to it.” 

It appeared that the servants of the cabaret thought it be- 
neath the dignity of their sex to subscribe to such a preten- 
sion, for there was such a noise that D’Harmental thought it 
best to announce himself. 

“ Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up,” said the 
captain. 

D’Harmental followed the instruction which was given him 
in the words of Little Red Riding-hood ; and, having entered, 
saw the captain lying on a couch before the remains of an 
ample dinner, leaning on a cushion, a woman’s shawl over 
his shoulders, a ^eat pipe in his mouth, and a cloth rolled 
round his head like a turban. Three or four servants were 
standing round him with napkins in their hands. On a 
chair near him was placed his coat, on which was to be seen a 
new shoulder-knot, his hat with a new lace, and the famous 
sword which had furnished Ravanne with the facetious com- 
parison to his mother’s spit. 

“ What I is it you ?” cried the captain. “ You find me 
liké Monsieur de Bon ne val — in my seraglio, and surrounded 
by my slaves. You do not know Monsieur de Bonneval, 
ladies : he is a pacha of three tails, who, like me, could not 
bear romances, but who understood how to live. Heaven 
preserve me from such a fate as his !” 

“Yes, it is I, captain,” said D’Harmental, unable to pre- 
vent laughing at the grotesque group which presented itself. 

I see you did not give me a false address, and I congra- 
tulate you on your veracity.’* 

“ Welcome, chevalier,” said the captain. “ Ladies, I beg 


6o 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


you to serve monsieur with the grace which distinguishes you, 
and to sing him whatever songs he likes. Sit down, cheva- 
lier, and eat and drink as if you were at home, particularly 
as it is your horse we are eating and drinking. He is already 
nore than half gone, poor animal, but the remains are good.’* 

“ Thank you, captain, I have just dined ; and I have only 
one word to say to you, if you will permit it.” 

“ No, pardieu ! I do not permit it,” said the captain, 
“ unless it is about another engagement — that would come 
before everything. La Normande, give me my sword.” 

“No, captain; it is on business,” interrupted D’HarmentaL 

“ Oh ! if it is on business, I am your humble servant ; but 
I am a greater tyrant than the tyrants of Thebes or Corinth 
— Archias, Pelopidas, Leonidas, or any other that ends in 
‘as,’ who put off business till to-morrow. 1 have enough 
money to last till to-morrow evening ; then, after to-morrow, 
business.” 

“But at least after to-morrow, captain, I may count upon 
you ?” 

For life or death, chevalier.” 

“ I believe that the adjournment is prudent.” 

“ Prudentissimo !” said the captain. “ Athenais, light my 
pipe. La Normande, pour me out something to drink.” 

‘‘ The day after to-morrow, then, captain ?” 

“Yes ; where shall I find you ?” 

“ Listen,” replied D’Harmental, speaking so as to be heard 
by no one but him. “ Walk, from ten to eleven o’clock in the 
morning, in the Rue du Temps Perdu. Look up ; you will 
be called from somewhere, and you must mount till you meet 
some one you know. A good breakfast will await you.” 

“ All right, chevalier,” replied the captain ; “ from ten to 
eleven in the morning. Excuse me if I do not conduct you 
to the door, but you know it is not the custom with 1 urks.” 

The chevalier made a sign with his hand that he dispensed 
with this formality, and descended the staircase. He was 
only on the fourth step when he heard the captain begin the 
famous song of the Dragoons of Malplaquet, which had 
perhaps caused as much blood to be shed in duels as there 
had been on the field of battle. 


THE GARRET 


62 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE GARRET 

The next day the Abbé Brigaud came to the chevalier’s 
house at the same hour as before. He was a perfectly 
punctual man. He brought with him three things particularly 
useful to the chevalier ; clothes, a passport, and the report 
of the Prince of Cellamare’s police respecting what the regent 
was going to do on the present day, March 24, 1718. The 
clothes were simple, as became the cadet of a bourgeois family 
come to seek his fortune in Paris. The chevalier tried them 
on, and, thanks to his own good looks, found that they be- 
came him admirably. 

The abbé shook his head. He would have preferred that 
the chevalier should not have looked quite so well ; but this 
was an irreparable misfortune. The passport was in the 
name of Signior Diego, steward of the noble house of Oropesa, 
who had a commission to bring back to Spain a sort of 
maniac, a bastard of the said house, whose mania was to 
believe himself regent of France. This was a precaution 
taken to meet anything that the Due d’Orleans might call 
out from the bottom of the carriage ; and, as the passport 
was according to rule, signed by the Prince de Cellamare, 
and “ viséd” by Monsieur Voyer d’Argenson, there was no 
reason why the regent, once in the carriage, should not 
arrive safely at Pampeluna, when all would be done. 

The signature of Monsieur Voyer d’Argenson was imitated- . 
with a truth which did honour to the caligraphers of the 
Prince de Cellamare. As to the report, it was a chef-d’œu\Te 
of clearness ; and we insert it word for word, to give an idea 
of the regent’s life, and of the manner in which the Spanish 
ambassador’s police was conducted. It was dated two 
o’clock in the morning. 

“ To-day the regent will rise late. There has been a sup- 
per in his private rooms ; Madame d’Averne was there for 


62 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


the first time instead of Madame de Parabere. The other 
women were the Duchesse de Falaris, and Saseri, maid of 
honour to madame. The men were the Marquis de Broglie, 
the Count de Nocé, the Marquis de Canillac, the Due de 
Brancas, and the Chevalier de Simiane. As to the Marquis 
de Lafare and Monsieur de Fargy, they were detained in 
bed by an illness, of which the cause is unknown. At noon 
there will be a council The regent will communicate to the 
Dues de Maine and de Guiche the project of the treaty of 
the quadruple alliance, which the Abbé Dubois has sent him, 
announcing his return in three or four days. 

“ The rest of the day is given entirely to paternity. The 
day before yesterday the regent married his daughter by La 
Desmarets, who was brought up by the nuns of St. Denis. 
She dines with her husband at the Palais Royal, and, after 
dinner, the regent takes her to the opera, to the box of 
Madame Charlotte de Bavière. La Desmarets, who has not 
seen her daughter for six years, is told that, if she wishes to 
see her, she can come to the theatre. The regent, hi spite of 
his caprice for Madame d’Averne, still pays court to Madame 
de Sabran, who piques herself on her fidelity — not to her 
husband, but to the Due de Richelieu. To advance his 
affairs, the regent has appointed Monsieur de Sabran his 
maître-d’hôtel.” 

“ I hope that is business well done,” said the Abbé 
Brigaud. 

“ Yes, my dear abbé,” replied D’Harmental ; ** but if the 
regent does not give us greater opportunities than that for 
executing our enterprise, it will not be easy for us to take 
him to Spain.” 

Patience, patience,” said Brigaud ; “ if there had been 
an opportunity to-day you would not have been able to profit 
by it.” 

“No ; you are right” 

“ Then you see that what God does is well done. He has 
left us this day ; let us profit by it to move.” 

This was neither a long nor difficult business. D’Harmental 
took his treasure, some books, and the packet which contained 
his wardrobe, and drove to the abbé’s house. Then he sent 
away his carriage, saying he should go into the country in 


THE GARRET, 


63 


the evening, and would be away ten or twelve days. Then, 
having changed his elegant clothes for those that the abbé 
had brought him, he went to take possession of his new 
lodging. It was a room, .or rather an attic, with a closet, on 
the fourth story, at No. 5, Rue du Temps Perdu. I'he pro- 
prietor of the house was an acquaintance of the Abbé Bri- 
gand’s ; therefore, thanks to his recommendation, they had 
gone to some expense for the young provincial. He found 
beautifully white curtains, very fine linen, and a well-furnished 
library ; so he saw at once that, if not so well off as in his 
own apartments, he s’ ould be tolerably comfortable. 

Madame Denis (this was the name of the abbe’s friend) 
was waiting to do the honours of the room to her future 
lodger. She boasted to him of its convenience, and promised 
him that there would be no noise to disturb him from his 
work. To all which he replied in such a modest manner, 
that on going down to the first-floor, where she lived, Madame 
Denis particularly recommended him to the care of the 
porter and his wife. This young man, though in appearance 
he could certainly compete with the proudest seigneurs of 
the court, seemed to her far from having the bold and free 
manners which the young men of the time affected. ’Tis 
true that the Abbé Brigaud, in the name of his pupil’s family, 
had paid her a quarter in advance. 

A minute after, the abbé went down to Madame Denis’ 
room and completed her good opinion of his young protégé 
by telling her that he received absolutely nobody but himself 
and an old friend of his father’s. The latter, in spite of 
brusque manners, which he had acquired in the field, was a 
highly respectable gentleman. 

D’Harmental used this precaution for fear the apparition 
of the captain might frighten Madame Denis if she happened 
to meet him. When he was alone, the chevalier, who had 
already taken the inventory of his own room, resolved to take 
that of the neighbourhood. He was soon able to convince 
himself of the truth of what Madame Denis had said about 
the quietness of the street, for it was not more than ten or 
twelve feet wide ; but this was to him a recommendation, for 
he calculated that if pursued he might, by means of a plank 
passed from one window to that opposite, escape to the othei 


64 


THE COSSPIRATORS, 


side of the street It was, therefore, important to establish 
iimicable relations with his opposite neighbours. 

Unfortunately, they did not seem much disposed to socia- 
bility ; for not only were the windows hermetically sealed, 
as the time of year demanded, but the curtains behind them 
were so closely drawn, that there was not the smallest open- 
ing through which he could look. More favoured than that 
of Madame Denis, the house opposite had a fifth story, or 
rather a terrace. An attic room just above the window so 
carefully closed, opened on this terrace. It was probably the 
residence of a gardener, for he had succeeded, by means of 
patience and labour, in transforming this terrace into a garden, 
containing, in some twelve feet square, a fountain, a grotto, 
and an arbour. 

It is true that the fountain only played by means of a supe- 
rior reservoir, which was fed in winter by the rain, and in 
summer by what he himself poured into it. It is true that 
the grotto, ornamented wdth shell-work, and surrounded by a 
wooden fortress, appeared fit only to shelter an individual of 
the canine race. It is true that the arbour, entirely stripped 
of its leaves, appeared for the time fit only for an immense 
poultry-cage. As there was nothing to be seen but a mono- 
tonous series of roofs and chimneys, D’Harmental c losed his 
window, sat down in an arm-chair, put his feet on the hobs, 
took up a volume by the Abbé Chaulieu, and began to read 
the verses addressed to Mademoiselle de Launay, which had 
a double interest for him, since he knew the heroine 

The result of this reading was that the chevalier, while 
smiling at the octogenarian love of the good abbé, discovered 
that he, less fortunate, had his heart perfectly unoccupied. 
For a short time he had thought he had loved Maciame 
d’Averne, and had been loved by her ; but on her part this 
deep affection did not withstand the offer of some jewels from 
the regent, and the vanity of pleasing him. 

Before this infidelity had occurred, the chevalier thought 
that it would have driven him to despair. It had occurred, 
and he had fought, because at that time men fought about 
everything which arose, probably from duelling being so 
strictly forbidden. Then he began to perceive how small a 
place this love had held in his heart A real despair would 


THE GARRET, 


65 

not have allowed him to seek amusement at the bal-masqué, 
in which case the exciting events of the last few days would 
not have happened. 

The result of this was, that the chevalier remained con- 
vinced that he was incapable of a deep love, and that he was 
only destined for ih jse charming wickednesses so much in 
vogue. He got up, and began to walk up and down his 
room ; whilst thus employed he perceived that the window 
opposite was now wide open. He stopped mechanically, 
drew back his curtain, and began to investigate the room 
thus exposed. 

It was to all appearance occupied by a woman. Near the 
window, on which a charming little Italian greyhound rested 
her delicate paws, was an embroidery frame. Opposite the 
window was an open harpsichord between two music stands, 
some crayon drawings, framed in black wood with a gold bead, 
were hung oh the walls, which were covered with a Persian 
paper. Curtains of Indian chintz, of the same pattern as the 
paper, hung behind the muslin curtains. Through a second 
window, half open, he could see the curtains of a recess which 
probably contained a bed. The rest of the furniture was 
perfectly simple, but almost elegant, which was due evidently, 
not to the fortune, but to the taste of the modest inhabitant. 

An old woman was sweeping, dusting, and arranging the 
room, profiting by the absence of its mistress to do this 
household work, for there was no one else to be seen in the 
room, and yet it was clear it was not she who inhabited it. 
All at once the head of the greyhound — whose great eyes had 
been wandering till then, with the aristocratic indifference 
characteristic of that animal — became animated. She leaned 
her head over into the street ; then, with a miraculous light- 
ness and address, jumped on to the window-sill, pricking up 
her long ears, and raising one of her paws. The chevalier 
understood by these signs that the tenant of the little room 
was approaching. He opened his window directly ; unfor- 
tunately it was already too late, the street was solitary. 

At the same moment the greyhound leaped from the 
window into the room, and ran to the door. D’Harmental 
concluded that the young lady was mounting the stairs. In 
order to see her at his ease^ he threw himself back and hid 

5 


66 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


behind the curtain, but the old woman came to the window 
and closed it. The chevalier did not expect this denoue- 
ment There was nothing for him but to close his window 
also, and to come back and put his feet on the hobs. This 
was not amusing, and the chevalier began to feel how soli- 
tary he should be in this retreat He remembered that 
formerly he also used to play and draw,- and he thought that 
if he had the smallest spinet and some chalks, he could bear 
it with patience. 

He rang for the porter, and asked where he could procure 
these things. The porter replied that every increase of fur- 
niture must be at his own expense. That if he wished for a 
harpsichord he must hire it, and that as to pencils, he could 
get thenj ^t the shop at the corner of the Rue de Cléry. 

D’Harnjental gave a double louis to the porter, telling him 
that in half an hour he wished to have a spinet and some 
pencils. The double louis was an argument of which he had 
before found the advantage ; reproaching himself, however, 
with having used it this time with a carelessness which gave 
the lie to his apparent position, he recalled the porter, and 
told him that he expected for his double lous to have, not 
only paper and pencils, but a month’s hire of his instrument. 

The porter replied that as he would speak as if it were for 
himself, the thing was possible ; but that he must certainly 
pay the carriage. D’Harmental consented, and half an hour 
afterwards was in possession of the desired objects. Such a 
wonderful place is Paris for every enchanter with a golden 
wand. The porter, when he went down, told his wife that 
if the new lodger was not more careful of his money, he 
would ruin his family, and showed her two crowns of six 
francs, which he had saved out of the double louis. The 
woman took the two crowns from the hands of her husband, 
calling him a drunkard, and put them into a little bag, hidden 
under a heap of old clothes, deploring the misfortune of 
fathers and mothers who bleed themselves to death for such 
good-for-nothings. This was the funeral oration of the 
chevalier’s double louis. 


. A CITIZEN OF THE RUE DU TEMPS PERDU. Uj 


CHAPTER IX. 

A CITIZEN OF THE RUE DU TEMPS PERDU. 

During this time D’Harmental was seated before the spinet, 
playing his best. The shopkeeper had had a sort of con- 
science, and had sent him an instrument nearly in tune, so 
that the chevalier began to perceive that he was doing 
wonders, and almost believed he was born with a genius for 
music, which had only required such a circumstance to de- 
velope itself. Doubtless there was some truth in this, for in 
the middle of a brilliant shake he saw, from the other side of 
the street, five little fingers delicately raising the curtain to 
see from whence this unaccustomed harmony proceeded. 
Unfortunately, at the sight of these fingers the chevalier 
forgot his music, and turned round quickly on the stool, in 
hopes of seeing a face behind the hand. 

This ill-judged manoeuvre ruined him. The mistress of 
the little room, surprised in the act of curiosity, let the cur- 
tain fall. D’Harmental, wounded by this prudery, closed his 
window. The evening passed in reading, drawing, and play* 
ing. The chevalier could not have believed that there were 
so many minutes in an hour, or so many hours in a day. At 
ten o’clock in the evening he rang for the porter, to give 
orders for the next day ; but no one answered ; he had been 
in bed a long time, and D’Harmental learned that there were 
people who went to bed about the time he ordered his car- 
riage to pay visits. 

'Phis set him thinking of the strange manners of that un- 
fortunate class of society who do not know the opera, who 
do not go to supper-parties, and who sleep all night and are 
awake all day. He thought you must come to the Rue du 
Temps Perdu to see such things, and promised himself to 
amuse his friends with an account of this singularity. He 
was glad to see also that his neighbour watched like himself. 
This showed in her a mind superior to that of the vulgar im 

5—2 


63 


THE COSSPJRATORS, 


habitants of the Rue du Temps Perdu. D’Harmental be- 
lieved that people only watched because they did not wish 
to sleep, or because they wanted to be amused. He forgot 
all those who do so because they are obliged. At midnight 
the light in the opposite windows was extinguished ; D’Har- 
mental also went to his bed. The next day the Abbé Bri- 
gand appeared at eight o clock. He brought D’Harmental 
the second report of secret police. It was in these terms : 

“ Three o’clock, A.M. 

‘‘ In consequence of the regular life which he led yesterday, 
the regent has given orders to be called at nine. 

“He will receive some appointed persons at that time. 

“ From ten to twelve there will be a public audience. 

“ From twelve till one the regent will be engaged with La 
Vrilliere and Leblanc. 

“ From one to two he will open letters with Torcy. 

“ At half-past two there will be a council, and he will pay 
the king a visit. 

“ At three o’clock he will go to the tennis-court in the Rue 
du Seine, to sustain, with Brancas and Canillac, a challenge 
against the Due de Richelieu, the Marquis de Broglie, and 
the Comte de Gacé. 

“ At six he will go to supper at the Luxembourg with the 
Duchesse de Berry, and will pass the evening there. 

“From there he will come back, without guards, to the 
Palais Royal, unless the Duchesse de Berry gives him an 
escort from hers.” 

“Without guards, my dear abbé! what do you think of 
that ?” said D’Harmental, beginning to dress ; “ does it not 
make your mouth water ?” 

“ \Vithout guards, yes,” replied the abbé ; “ but with foot- 
men, outriders, a coachman — all people who do not fight 
much, it is true, but who cry very loud. Oh ! patience, 
patience, my young friend. You are in a great hurry to be 
a grandee of Spain.” 

“No, my dear abbé, but I am in a hurry to give up living 
in an attic where I lack everything, and where I am obliged 
to dress myself alone, as you see. Do you think it is nothing 
to go ^o bed at ten o’clock, and dress in the morning without a 
valet ?” 


A CITIZEN OF THE RUE DU TEMPS PERDU % 


“ Yes, but you have music,” replied the abbé. 

“ Ah ! indeed !” replied D’Harmental. “ Abbé, open my 
w indow, I beg, that they may see I receive good company. 
That will do me honour with my neighbours.” 

“ Ho ! ho !” said the abbé, doing what D’Harmental 
asked ; “ that is not bad at all.” 

“ How, not bad ?” replied D’Harmental ; “ it is very good, 

* on the contrary. It is from Armida : the devil take me if I 
expected to find that in the fourth story of a house in the 
Rue du Temps Perdu.” 

“ Chevalier, I predict,” said the abbé, “ that, if the singer 
be young and pretty, in a week there wdll be as much trouble 
to get you away as there is now to keep you here.” 

“ My dear abbé,” said D’Harmental, “ if your police w’ere 
as good as those of the Prince de Cellamare, you would know 
that I am cured of love for a long time, and here is the proof. 
Do not think I pass my days in sighing. I beg when you 
go down you will send me something like a pâté, and a dozen 
bottles of good wine. I trust to )ou. I know you are a 
connoisseur ; besides, sent by you, it wûll seem like a guar- 
dian’s attention. Bought by me, it would seem like a pupil’s 
debauch ; and I have my provincial reputation to keep up 
with Madame Denis.” 

“ I'hat is true. I do not ask you what it is for, but I will 
send it to you.” 

“ And you are right, my dear abbé. It is all for the good 
of the cause.” 

“ In an hour the pâté and the wine will be here.” 

“ When shall I see you again ?” 

To-morrow, probably.” 

“Adieu, then, till to-morrows” 

“You send me aw^ay.” 

“ I am expecting somebody.” 

“ All for the good of the cause ?” 

“ I answer you, go, and may God preserve you.” 

“ Stay, and may the devil not get hold of you. Remem- 
ber that it was a/woman who got us turned out of our terres-' 
trial paradise. Defy women.” 

“ Amen,” said the chevalier, making a parting sign with 
his hand to the Abbé Brigaud. 


70 


THE CONSPIRATORS 


Indeed, as the abbé had observed, D’Harmentai was in a 
hurry to see him go. The great love for music, which the 
chevalier had discovered only the day before, had progressed 
so rapidly that he did not wish his attention called away from 
what he had just heard. The little which that horrible win- 
dow allowed him to hear, and which was more of the instru- 
ment than of the voice, showed that his neighbour was an 
excellent musiciaa The playing was skilful, the voice sweet 
and sustained, and had, in its high notes and deep vibrations, 
something which aw'oke an answer in the heart of the lis- 
tener. At last, after a very difficult and perfectly-executed 
passage, D’Harmentai could not help clapping his hands and 
crying bravo ! As bad luck would have it, this triumph, to 
which she had not been accustomed, instead of encouraging 
the musician, frightened her so much, that voice and harpsi- 
chord stopped at the same instant, and silence immediately 
succeeded to the melody for which the chevalier had so im- 
prudently manifested his enthusiasm. 

In exchange, he saw the door of the room above (which 
we have said led on to the terrace) open, and a hand was 
stretched out, evidently to ascertain what kind of weather it 
was. The answer of the weather seemed reassuring, for the 
hand "was almost directly followed by a head covered by a 
little ch'intz cap, tied on the forehead by a violet ribbon ; and 
the head was only a few instants in advance of a neck and 
shoulders clothed in a kind of dressing-gown of the same 
stuff as the cap. This was not quite enough to enable the 
chevalier to decide to which sex the individual, who seemed 
so cautious about exposing himself to the morning air, be- 
longed. At last, a sort of sunbeam having slipped out 
between two clouds, the timid inhabitant of the terrace ap- 
peared to be encouraged to come out altogether. D’Har- 
mentai then saw’, by his black velvet knee-breeches, and by 
his silk stockings, that the personage who had just entered 
on the scene was of the masculine gender. 

It was the gardener of whom we spoke. The bad weather 
of the preceding days had, without doubt, deprived him of 
his morning walk, and had prevented him from giving his 
garden his ordinary attention, for he began to walk round it 
with a visible fear of finding some accident produced by the 


A CITIZEN OF THE RUE DU TEMPS PERDU, 71 


wind or rain ; but, after a careful inspection of the fountain, 
the grotto, and the arbour, which were its three principal or- 
naments, the excellent face of the gardener was lighted by a 
ray of joy, as the weather was by the ray of sun. He ] er- 
ceived, not only that everything was in its place, but that the 
reservoir was full to overflowing. He thought he might in- 
dulge in playing his fountains, a treat which, ordinarily, fol- 
lowing the example of Louis XIV., he only allowed himself 
on Sundays. He turned the cock, and the jet raised itself 
majestically to the height of four or five feet. The good 
man was so delighted that he began to sing the burden of an 
old pastoral song which D’Harmental had heard when he 
was a baby, and, while repeating, — 

** Let me go 
And let me play 
Beneath the hazel-tree.” 

he ran to the window, and called aloud, “Bathilde! Bathilde !” 

The chevalier understood that there was a communication 
between the rooms on the third and fourth stories, and some 
relation between the gardener and the musician, and thought 
that perhaps if he remained at the window she would not 
come on to the terrace ; therefore he closed his window with 
a careless air, taking care to keep a little opening behind the 
curtain, through which he could see without being seen. 
What he had foreseen happened. Very soon the head of a 
charming young girl appeared on the terrace ; but as, without 
doubt, the ground, on which he had ventured with so much 
courage, was too damp, she w'ould not go any further. ILe 
little dog, not less timid than its mistress, remained near her, 
resting its white paws on the window, and shaking its head 
in silent denial to every invitation. A dialogue was estab- 
lished between the good man and the young girl, while 
D’Harmental had leisure to examine her at ease. 

She appeared to have arrived at that delicious time of life 
when woman, passing from childhood to youth, is in the full 
bloom of sentiment, grace, and beauty. He saw that she 
was not less than sixteen nor more than eighteen years of age, 
and that there existed in her a singular mixture of two races. 
She had the fair hair, thick complexion, and graceful neck of 


72 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


an English woman, with the black eyes, coral lips, and 
pearly teeth of a Spaniard. 

As she did not use either rouge or white, and as at that 
time powder was scarcely in fashion, and was reserved for 
aristocratic heads, her complexion remained in its natural 
freshness, and nothing altered the colour of her hair. 

The chevalier remained as in an ecstasy — indeed, he had 
never seen but two classes of women. The fat and coarse 
peasants of the Nivernais, with their great feet and hands, 
their short petticoats, and their hunting-horn shaped hats ; 
and the women of the Parisian aristocracy, beautiful without 
doubt, but of that beauty fagged by watching and pleasm y, 
and by that reversing of life which makes them what flowers 
would be if they only saw the sun on some rare occasions, 
and the vivifying air of the morning and the evening only 
reached them through the windows of a hot-house. He did 
not know this intermediate type, if one may call it so, be- 
tween high society and the country people, which had all the 
elegance of the one, and all the fresh health of the other. 
Thus, as we have said, he remained fixed in his place, and 
long afier the young girl had re-entered, he kept his eyes 
fixed on the window where this delicious vision had ap- 
peared. 

The sound of his door opening called him out of his 
ecstasy : it was the pâté and the wine from Abbé Brigand 
making their solemn entry into the chevalier’s garret. The 
sight of these provisions recalled to his mind that he had 
now something better to do than to abandon himself to con- 
templation, and that he had given Captain Roquefinette a 
rendezvous on the most important business. Consequently 
he looked at his watch, and saw that it was ten o’clock 
This was, as the reader will remember, the appointed hour. 
He sent away the man who had brought the provisions, and 
said he would lay the cloth himself ; then, opening his win- 
dow once more, he sat down to watch for the appearance of 
Captain Roquefinette. 

He was hardly at his observatory before he perceived the 
worthy captain coming round the corner from the Rue Gros- 
Chenet, his head in the air, his hand on his hip, and with 
the martial and decided air of a man who, like the Greek 


A CITIZEN OF THE RUE DU TEMPS PERDU 73 

philosopher, carries everything with him. His hat, that 
thermometer by which his friends could tell the secret state 
of its master’s finances, and which, on his fortunate days 
w'as placed as straight on his head as a pyramid on its base, 
had recovered that miraculous inclination which had so 
struck the Baron de Valef, and thanks to which, one of the 
points almost touched his right shoulder, while the paraltel 
one might forty years later have given Franklin, if Franklin 
had known the captain, the first idea of his electric kite. 

Having come about a third down the street, he raised his 
head as had been arranged, and saw the chevalier just above 
him. He who waited, and he who was waited for, exchanged 
nods, and the captain having calculated the distance at a 
glance, and recognised the door which ought to belong to 
the window above, jumped over the threshold of Madame 
Denis’ poor little house with as much familiarity as it it had 
been a tavern. The chevalier shut the window, and drew 
the curtains with the greatest care — either in order that his 
pretty neighbour might not see him with the captain, or that 
the captajn might not see her. 

An instant afterw’ards D’Harmental heard the sound of his 
steps, and the beating of his sword against the banisters. 
Having arrived at the third story, as the light which came 
from below was not aided by any light from above, he found 
himself in a difficulty, not knowing whether to stop where he 
was, or mount higher. Then, after coughing in the most 
significant manner, and finding that this call remained un- 
noticed, — 

“ Morbleu !” said he. “ Chevalier, as you did not pro- 
bably bring me here to break my neck, open your door or 
call out, so that I may be guided either by the light of 
heaven, or by the sound of your voice ; otherwise I shall be 
lost, neither more nor less than Theseus in the labyrinth.” 

And the captain began to sing in a loud voice, — 

‘'Fair Ariadne, I beg of you, 

Help me, by lending me your clue. 

Toutou, toutou, toutaine, toutou I** 

The chevalier ran to his door and opened it 

“ My friend,” said the captain, “ the ladder ud to youi 


74 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


pigeon-house is infernally dark ; still here I am, faithful to 
the agreement, exact to the time. Ten o’clock was striking 
as I came over the Pont-Neuf.” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE AGREEMENT. 

The chevalier extended his hand to Roquehnette, saying? 

“ Yes, you are a man of your word, but enter quickly ; it 
is important that my neighbours should not notice you.” 

“ In that case I am as dumb as a log,” answered the cap- 
tain ; “ besides,” added he, pointing to the pâté and the 
bottles which covered the table, “ you have found the true 
way of shutting my mouth.” 

The chevalier shut the door behir^d the captain and pushed 
the bolt. 

“Ah ! ah ! mystery — so much the better, I am fond of 
mystery. There is almost always something to be gained 
when people begin by saying ‘ hush.’ In any case you can- 
not do better than address yourself to your servant,” con- 
tinued the captain, resuming his mythological language. 
“ You see in me the grandson of Hippocrates, the god of 
silence. So do not be uneasy.” 

“That is well, captain,” answered D’Harmental, “for I 
confess that what I have to say to you is of sufficient import- 
ance for me to claim your discretion beforehand.” 

“ It is granted, chevalier. While I was giving a lesson to 
•ittle Ravanne, I saw, out of a corner of my eye, that you 
were a skilful swordsman, and I love brave men. Then, in 
return for a little service, only worth a fillip, you made me a 
present of a horse which was worth a hundred louis, and I 
love generous men. Thus, you are twice my man, why 
should I not be yours once ?” 

“ Well,” said the chevalier, “ I see that we understand each 
Other.” 


/ 


THE A G REE ME ITT. 75 

^ •* Speak, and I will listen,” answered the captain, assuming 
his gravest air. 

“You will listen better seated, my dear guest Let us go 
to breakfast” 

“ You preach like St John with the golden mouth, che- 
valier,” said the captain, taking off his sword and placing that 
and his hat on the harpsichord ; “ so that,” continued he, 
sitting down opposite D’Harmental, “one cannot differ from 
you in opinion. I am here ; command the manœuvre, and 
I will execute it” 

“Taste that winè while I cut the pâté.” 

“ That is right,” said the captain, “ let us divide our forces, 
and fight the enemy separately, then let us re-unite to exter- 
minate what remains.” 

And joining practice to theory, the captain seized the first 
bottle by the neck, drew the cork, and having filled a 
bumper, drank it off with such ease that one would have said 
that nature had gifted him with an especial method of deglu- 
tition ; but, to do him justice', scarcely had he drunk it than 
he perceived that the liquor, which he had disposed of so 
cavalierly, merited a more particular attention than he had 
given it. 

“ Oh !” said he, putting down his glass with a respectful 
slowness, “ what have I done, unworthy that I am ? I drink 
nectar as if it were trash, and that at the beginning of the 
feast! Ah!” continued he, shaking his head, “Roquefi- 
nette, my friend, you are getting old. Ten years ago you 
would have known what it was at the first drop that touched 
your palate, while now you want many trials to know the 
worth of things. To your health, chevalier.” 

And this time the captain, more circumspect, drank the 
second glass slowly, and set it down three times before he 
finished it, winking his eyes in sign of satisfaction. Then, 
when he had finished, — 

“This is hermitage of 1702, the year of the battle of 
Friedlingen. If your wine-merchant has much like that, and 
if he will give credit, let me have his address. I promise 
him a good customer.” 

“ Captain,” answered the chevalier, slipping an enormous 
slice of pâté on to the plate of his guest, “ my wine-merchant 


76 THE CONSPIRATORS. 

not only gives credit, but to my friends he gives alto 
gether.” 

“ Oh, the honest man !” cried the captain. Then, after a 
minute’s silence, during which a superficial observer would 
have thought him absorbed in the appreciation of the pâté, 
as he had been an instant before in tiiat of the wine, he leant 
his two elbows on the table, and looking at D’Harmental 
with a penetrating glance between his knife and fork, — 

‘ So, my dear chevalier,” said he, “ we conspire, it seems, 
and in order to succeed we have need of poor Captain 
Roquefinette.” 

“ And who told you that, captain ?” broke in the chevalier, 
trembling in spite of himself. 

“ Who told me that, pardieu ! It is an easy riddle to 
answer. A man who gives away horses worth a hundred 
louis, who drinks wine at a pistole the bottle, and who lodges 
in a garret in the Rue du Temps Perdu, what should he be 
doing if not conspiring ?” 

“Well, captain,” said D’Harmental, laughing, “I shall 
never be discreet ; you have divined the truth. Does a con- 
spiracy frighten you ?” continued he, filling his guest’s glass. 

“Frighten me! Who says that anything on earth can 
frighten Captain Roquefinette ?” 

“ Not I, captain ; for at the first glance, at the first word, 

I fixed on you as my second.” 

“ Ah, that is to say, that if you are hung on a scaffold 
twenty feet high, I shall be hung on one ten feet high, that’s 
all !” 

“Peste! captain,” said D’Harmental, “if one always 
began by seeing things in their worst light, one would never 
attempt anything.” 

“ Because I have spoken of the gallows ?” answered the 
captain. “ That proves nothing. What is the gallows in the 
eyes of a philosopher ? One of the thousand ways of parting 
from life, and certainly one of the least disagreeable. One 
can see that you have never looked the thing in the face, 
since you have such an aversion to it. Besides, on proving 
our noble descent, we shall have our heads cut off, like 
Monsieur de Rohan. Did you see Monsieur de Rohan’s head 
cut off?” continued the captain, looking at D’HarmentaL 


THE AGREEMENT. 


77 


" He was a handsome young man, like you, and about youi 
age. He conspired, but the thing failed. What would you 
have? Everybody may be deceived. They built him a 
beautiful black scaffold ; they allowed him to turn towards 
the window where his mistress was; they cut the neck of his 
shirt with scissors, but the executioner was a bungler, ac- 
customed to hang, and not to decapitate, so that he was 
obliged to strike three or four times to cut the head off, and 
at last he only managed by the aid of a knife which he drew 
fron- his girdle, and with which he chopped so well that he 
got the neck in half. Bravo ! you are brave !” continued 
the captain, seeing that the chevalier had listened without 
frowning to all the details of this horrible execution. “That 
will do — I am your man. Against whom are we conspiring ? 
Let us see. Is it against Monsieur le Duc de Maine ? Is it 
against Monsieur le Duc d’Orléans ? Must we break the 
lame one’s other leg ? Must we cut out the blind one’s other 
e} e ? I am ready.” 

“ Nothing of all that, captain ; and if it pleases God there 
will be no blood spilt.” 

“ What is going on then ?” 

“ Have you ever heard of the abduction of the Duke of 
Mantua’s secretary ?’* 

“Of Matthioli?’^ 

“ Yes.” 

“ Pardieu ! I know the affair better than any one, for I saw 
them pass as they were conducting him to Pignerol. It was 
the Chevalier de Saint-Martin and Monsieurde Villebois who 
did it ; and by this token they each had three thousand livres 
for themselves and their men.” 

“ That was only middling pay,” said D’Harmental, with a 
disdainful air. 

“ You think so, chevalier ? Nevertheless three thousand 
livres is a nice little sum.” 

“ Then for three thousand livres you would have under- 
taken it ?” 

“ I would have undertaken it,” answered the captain. 

“ But if instead of carrying off a secretary it had been pro- 
posed to you to carry off a duke ?” 

“ That would have been dearer.” 


78 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


“ But you would have undertaken it all the same ?” 

“Why not ? I should have asked double — that is all.” 

“And if, in giving you double, a man like myself had said 
to you, ‘ Captain, it is not an obscure danger that I plunge 
you into ; it is a struggle in which I am myself engaged, like 
you, and in which I venture my name, my future, and my 
head what would you have answered ?” 

“ I would have given him my hand, as I now give it you. 
Now what is the business?” 

The chevalier filled his own glass and that of the captain. 

“To the health of the regent,” said he, “and may he 
arrive without accident at the Spanish frontier, as Matthioli 
arrived at Pignerol.” 

“ Ah ! ah !” said the captain, raising his glass. Then, aPer 
a pause, “ And why not ?” continued he, “ the regent is but 
a man after all. Only we shall neither be hung nor decapi- 
tated ; we shall be broken on the wheel. To any one else 
I should say that a regent would be dearer, but to you, che- 
valier, I have only one price. Give me six thousand livres, 
and I will find a dozen determined men.” 

“ But those twelve men, do you think that you may trust 
them ?” 

“ What need for their knowing what they are doing ? They 
shall think they are only carrying out a wager.” 

“ And I,” answered D’Harmental, “ will show you that I 
do not haggle with my friends. Here are two thousand 
crowns in gold, take them on account if we succeed ; if we 
fail we will cry quits.” 

“ Chevalier,” answered the captain, taking the bag of 
money and poising it on his hand with an indescribable air 
of satisfaction, “ I will not do you the injustice of counting 
after you. When is the affair to be ?” 

“ I do not know yet, captain ; but if you find ^le pate to 
your taste, and the wine good, and if you will do me the 
pleasure of breakfasting with me every day as you have done 
to-day, I will keep you informed of everything.” 

“ That would not do, chevalier,” said the captain. “ I 
should not have come to you three mornings before the police 
of that cursed Argenson would have found us out. Luckily 
he has found some one as clever as himself, and it will be 


THE AGREEMENT 


79 


some time before we are at the bar together. No, no, < lie- 
valier, from now till the moment for action, the less we see of 
one another the better ; or rather, we must not see each other 
at all. Your street is not a long one, and as it opens at one 
end on the Rue du Gros Chenet, and at the other on the 
Rue Montmartre, I shall have no reason for coming through 
it. Here,” continued he, detaching his shoulder knot, “ take 
this ribbon. The day that you want me, tie it to a nail out- 
side your window. I shall understand it, and I will come 
to you.” 

“ How, captain !” said D’Harmental, seeing that his com- 
panion was fastening on his sword. “ Are you going without 
finishing the bottle ? What has the wine, which you appeared 
to appreciate so much a little while ago, done to you, that 
you despise it so now?” 

“ It is just because I appreciate it still that I separate 
myself from it ; and the proof that I do not despise it,” said 
the captain, filling his glass, “is that I am going to take an 
adieu of it. To your health, chevalier ; you may boast of 
having good wine. Hum 1' And now, n — o, no, that is all. 
I shall take to water till I see the ribbon flutter from your 
window. Try to let it be as soon as possible, for water is a 
liquid that does not suit my constitution.” 

“ But why do you go so soon ?” 

“ Because I know Captain Roquefinette. He is a good 
fellow; but when he sits down before a bottle he must 
drink, and when he has drunk he must talk ; and, however 
well one talks, remember that those who talk much always 
finish by making some blunder. Adieu, chevalier. Do not 
forget the crimson ribbon ; I go to look after our business.” 

“ Adieu, captain,” said D’Harmental, “ 1 am pleased to see 
that I have no need to preach discretion to you.” 

The captain made the sign of the cross on his mouth with 
R s right thumb, placed his hat straight on his head, raised 
his sword for fear of its making a noise or beating against 
the wall, and went dowmstairs as silently as if he had feared 
that every step would echo in the Hôtel d’Argenson. 


So 


THE CONSPIEATOES. 


CHAPTER XÎ. 

PROS AND CONS. 

The chevalier remained alone ; but this time there was, in 
what had just passed between himself and the captain, suffi- 
cient matter for reflection to render it unnecessary for him 
to have recourse either to the poetry of the Abbé Chaulieu, 
his harpsichord, or his chalks. Indeed, until now, he had 
been only half engaged in the hazardous enterprise of which 
the Duchesse de Maine and the Prince de Cellamare had 
shown him the happy ending, and of which the captain, in 
order to try his courage, had so brutally exhibited to him the 
bloody catastrophe. As yet he had only been the end of a 
chain, and, on breaking away from one side, he would have 
been loose. Now he was become an intermediate ring, fast- 
ened at both ends, and attached at the same time to people 
above and below him in society. In a word, from this hour 
he no longer belonged to himself, and he was like the Alpine 
traveller, who, having lost his way, stops in the middle of an 
unknown road, and measures with his eye, for the first time, 
the mountain which rises above him and the gulf which vawns 
beneath his feet. 

Luckily the chevalier had the calm, cold, and resolute 
courage of a man in whom fire and determination — those two 
opposite forces — instead of neutralising, stimulated each 
other. He engaged in danger with aU the rapidity of a 
sanguine man ; he weighed it with all the consideration of a 
phlegmatic one. Madame de Maine was right when she 
said to Madame de Launay that she might put out her 
lanthorn, and that she believed she had at last found a man. 

But this man was young, twenty-six years of age, with a 
heart open to all the illusions and all the poetry of that first 
part of existence. As a child he had laid down his play- 
things at the feet of his mother. As a young man he had 
come to exhibit his handsome uniform as colonel to the eyes 


PROS AND CONS, 


8i 


of his mistress : indeed, in every enterprise of his life some 
loved image had gone before him, and he threw himself into 
danger with the certainty that, if he succumbed, there would 
be some one surviving who would mourn his fate. 

But his mother was dead, the last woman by whom he had 
believed himself loved had betrayed him, and he felt alone in 
the world — bound solely by interest to men to whom he 
would become an obstacle as soon as he ceased to be an 
instrument, and who, if he broke down, far from mourning 
his loss, would only see in it a cause of satisfaction. But this 
isolated position, which ought to be the envy of all men in a 
great danger, is almost always (such is the egotism of our 
nature) a cause of the most profound discouragement. Such is 
the horror of nothingness in man, that he believes he still sur- 
vives in the sentiments which he has inspired, and he in some 
measure consoles himself for leaving the world by thinking 
of the regrets which will accompany his memory, and of the 
pity which will visit his tomb. Thus, at this instant, the 
chevalier would have given everything to be loved, if it was 
only by a dog. 

He was plunged in the saddest of these reflections when, 
passing and repassing before his window, he noticed that his 
neighbour’s was open. He stopped suddenly, and shook his 
head, as if to cast off* the most sombre of these thoughts ; 
then, leaning his elbow on the table, and his head on his 
hand, he tried to give a different direction to his thoughts by 
looking at exterior objects. 

The young girl whom he had seen in the morning was 
seated near her window, in order to benefit by the last rays 
of daylight ; she was working at some kind of embroidery. 
Behind her the harpsichord was open, and, on a stool at her. 
feet, her greyhound slept the light sleep of an animal destined 
by nature to be the guard of man, waking at every noise 
which arose from the street, raising its ears, and stretching out 
its elegant head over the window-sill ; then it lay down again, 
placing one of its little paws upon its mistress’ knees. All 
this was deliciously lighted up by the rays of the sinking sun, 
which penetrated into the room, sparkling on the steel 
ornaments of the harpsichord and the gold beading of the 
picture-frames. The rest was in twilight 


6 


32 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


Then it seemed to the chevalier (doubtless on account of 
the disposition of mind he was in when this picture had struck 
his eye) that this young girl, with the calm and sweet face, 
entered into his life, like one of those j)ersonages who always 
remain behind a veil, and make their entrance on a piece in 
the second or third act to take part in the action, and, some- 
times, to change the denouement. 

Since the age when one sees angels in one's dreams, he 
had seen no one like her. She was a mixture of beauty, 
candour, and simplicity, such as Greuze has copied, not from 
nature, but from the reflections in the mirror of his imagi- 
nation. Then, forgetting everything, the humble condition 
in which without doubt she had been born, the street where 
he had found her, the modest roon» which she had inhabited, 
seeing nothing in the woman except the woman herself, he 
attributed to her a heart corresponding with her face, and 
thought what would be the happiness of the man who should 
first cause that heart to beat ; who should be looked upon 
with love by those beautiful eyes, and who, in the words, 
“ I love you !” should gather from those lips, so fresh and 
so pure, that flower of the soul — a first kiss. 

Such are the different aspects which the same objects bor- 
row from the situation of him who looks at them. A week 
before, in the midst of his gaiety, in his life which no danger 
menaced, between a breakfast at the tavern and a stag-hunt, 
between a- wager at tennis and a supper at La Fillon’s, if 
D’Harmental had met this young girl, he would doubtless 
have seen in her nothing but a charming grisette, whom he 
would have had followed by his valet de chambre, and to 
whom, the next day, he would have outrageously offered a 
present of some twenty-five louis. 

But the D’Harmental of a week ago existed no more. In 
the'place of the handsome seigneur — elegant, wild, dissipated, 
and certain of life — was an insulated young man, walking in 
the shade, alone, and self-reliant, without a star to guide 
him, who might suddenly feel the earth open under his feet, 
and the heavens burst above his head. He had need of a 
support, so feeble was he ; he had need of love, he had 
need of poetry. It was not then wonderful that, searching 
for a Madonna to whom to address his prayers, he raised in 


FROS AND CONS, 


83 


bis imagination this young and beautiful girl from the material 
and prosaic sphere in which he found her, and that, drawing 
her into his own, he placed her, not such as she was, doubtless, 
but such as he wished her to be, on the empty pedestal of 
his past adorations. 

All at once the young girl raised her head, and happened 
to look in his direction, and saw the pensive figure of the 
chevalier through the glass. It appeared evident to her that 
the young man remained there for her, and that it was at her 
he was looking. Then a bright blush spread over her face. 
Still she pretended she had seen nothing, and bent her head 
once more over her embroidery. But a minute afterwards 
she rose, took a few turns round her room ; then, without 
affectation, without false prudery, but nevertheless with a cer- 
tain embarrassment, she returned and shut the window. 
D’Harmental remained where he was, and as he was ; con- 
tinuing, in spite of the shutting of the window, to advance 
into the imaginary country where his thoughts were straying. 

Once or twice he thought that he saw the curtain of his 
neighbour’s window raised, as if she wished to know whether 
he whose indiscretion had driven her from her place was still 
at his. At last a few masterly chords were heard ; a sweet 
harmony followed; and it was then D’Harmental who opened 
his window in his turn. 

He had not been mistaken, his neighbour was an admirable 
musician ; she executed two or three little pieces, but without 
blending her voice with the sound of the instrument ; and 
D’Harmental found almost as much pleasure in listening to 
her as he had found in looking at her. Suddenly she stopped 
in the midst of a passage. D’Harmental supposed either that 
she had seen him at his window, and wished to punish him 
for his curiosity, or that some one had come in and inter- 
rupted her. He retired into his room, but so as not to lose 
sight of the window, and soon discovered that his last sup- 
position was the true one. 

A man came to the window, raised the curtain, and pressed 
his fat, good-natured face against the glass, whilst with one 
hand he beat a march against the panes. The chevalier 
recognised, in spite of a sensible difference which there was 
in his toilette, the man of the water-jet whom he had seen 

6 — a 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


S4 

on the terrace m the morning, and who, with a perfect air of 
familiarity, had twice pronounced the name of “ Bathilde.” 

This apparition, more than prosaic, produced the effect 
which might naturally have been expected ; that is to say, 
it brought D’Harmental back from imaginary to real life. 
He had forgotten this man, who made such a strange and 
perfect contrast with the young girl, and who must doubtless 
be either her father, her lover, or her husband. But in either 
of these cases, what could there be in common between the 
daughter, the wife, or the mistress of such a man, and the 
noble and aristocratic chevalier? The wife! It is a mis- 
fortune of her dependent situation that she rises and falls 
according to the grandeur or vulgarity of him on w^hose arm 
she leans ; and it must be confessed that the gardener w'as 
not formed to maintain poor Bathilde at the height to which 
the chevalier had raised her in his dreams. 

Then he began to laugh at his own folly ; and the night 
having arrived, and as he had not been outside the door since 
the day before, he determined to take a walk through the 
town, in order to assure himself of the truth of the Prince de 
Cellamare’s reports. He wrapped himself in his cloak, 
descended the four stories, and bent his steps towards the 
Luxembourg, where the note which the Abbé Brigand had 
brought him in the morning said that the regent was going 
to supper without guards. 

Arrived opposite the palace of the Luxembourg, the 
chevalier saw none of those signs which should announce 
that the Due d’Orleans was at his daughter’s house : there was 
only one sentinel at the door, whilst from the moment that 
the regent entered a second was generally placed there. 
Besides, he saw no carriage waiting in the court, no footmen 
or outriders ; it was evident, then, that he had not come. 
The chevalier waited to see him pass, for, as the regent never 
breakfasted, and took nothing but a cup of chocolate at two 
o’clock in the afternoon, he rarely supped later than »ix 
o'clock ; but a quarter to six had struck at the St. Surplice 
at the moment when the chevalier turned the corner of the 
Rue de Condé and the Rue de Vaugirard. 

The chevalier waited an hour and a half in the Rue de 
Tournon, going from the Rue du Petit-Lion to the palace^ 


PJ^OS AND CONS, 


«5 

without seeing wnat he had come to look for. At a quarter 
to eight he saw some movement in the Luxembourg. A 
carriage, with outriders armed with torches, came to the foot 
of the steps. A minute after three women got in ; he heard the 
coachman call to the outriders, “ To the Palais Royal and 
the outriders set off at a gallop, the carriage followed, the 
sentinel presented arms ; and, quickly as the elegant equipage 
with the royal arms of France passed, the chevalier recognised 
the Duchesse de Berry, Madame de Mouchy, her lady of 
honour, and Madame de Pons, her tire-woman. 

There had been an important error in the report sent to 
the chevalier ; it was the daughter who went to the father, 
not the father who came to the daughter. 

Nevertheless, the chevalier still w^aited, for some accident 
might have happened to the regent, which detained him at 
home. An hour after he saw the carriage repass. The 
Duchesse de Berry was laughing at a story wLich Broglie was 
telling her. There had not then been any serious accident ; 
it was the police of the Prince de Cellamare, then, that w^ere 
at fault. 

The chevalier returned home about ten o’clock without 
having been met or recognised. He had some trouble to get 
the door opened, for, according to the patriarchal habits of 
Madame Denis’s house, the porter had gone to bed, and came 
out grumbling to unfasten the bolts. D’Harmental slipped 
a crown into his hand, saying to him, once for all, that he 
should sometimes return late, but that each time that he did 
so he would give him the same ; upon which the porter 
thanked him, and assured him that he was perfectly welcome 
to come home at anv time he liked, or even not to return 
at all. 

On returning to his room, D’Harmental saw that his neigh- 
bour’s was lighted up ; he placed his candle behind a piece 
of furniture, and approached the window, so that, as much as 
the muslin curtains allowed, he could see into her room, while 
she could not see into his. 

She was seated near a table, drawing, probably, on a card 
W'hich she held on her knees, for he saw her profile standing 
out black against the light behind her. Shortly another 
shadow, which the chevalier recognised as that of the good 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


8^. 

man of the terrace, passed twice between the light and the 
window. At last the shade approached the young girl, she 
offered her forehead, the shadow imprinted a kiss on it, and 
went away, with his candle in his hand. Directly afterwards 
the windows of the fifth story were lighted up. All these 
little circumstances spoke a language which it was impossible 
not to understand. The man of the terrace was not the 
husband of Bathilde, he must be her father. 

D’Harmental, without knowing why, felt overjoyed at this 
discovery ; he opened his window as softly as he could, and 
leant on the bar, which served him as a support, with his 
eyes fixed on the shadow. He fell into the same reverie 
out of which he had been startled that morning by the gro- 
tesque apparition of his neighbour. In about an hour the 
girl rose, put down her card and crayons on the table, 
advanced towards the alcove, knelt on a chair before the 
second window, and offered up her prayers. D’Harmental 
understood that her laborious watch was finished, but remem- 
bering the curiosity of his beautiful neighbour, when he had 
begun to play the first time, he wished to see if he could 
prolong that watch, and he sat down to his spinet. What 
he had foreseen happened ; at the first notes which reached 
her, the young girl, not knowing that from the position of 
the light he could see her shadow through the curtains, ap- 
proached the window on tip-toe, and thinking herself hidden, 
she listened to the melodious instrument, which, like the 
nightingale, awoke to sing in the middle of the night. 

The concert would have probably continued thus for some 
hours, for D’Harmental, encouraged by the result produced, 
felt an energy and an ease of execution such as he had never 
known before. Unluckily, the occupier of the third floor was 
undoubtedly some clown, no lover of music, for D’Harmental 
heard suddenly, just below his feet, the noise of a stick 
knocking on the ceiling with such violence that he could not 
doubt that it was a warning to him to put off his melodious 
occupation till a more suitable period. Under other circum- 
stances, D’Harmental would have sent the impertinent ad- 
viser to the devil, but reflecting that any ill-feeling on the 
lodger’s part would injure his own reputation with Madame 
Denis, and that he was playing too heavy a game to risk 


PROS AND CONS. 


Sjr 

being recognised, and not to submit philosophically to all 
the inconveniences of the new position which he had adopted, 
instead of setting himself in opposition to the rules esta- 
blished without doubt between Madame Denis and her 
lodgers, he obeyed the intimation, forgetting in what manner 
that intimation had been given him. 

On her part, as soon as she heard nothing more, the 
young girl left the window, and as she let the inner curtains 
fall behind her, she disappeared from D’Harmental’s eyes. 
For some time longer he could still see a light in her room ; 
then the light was extinguished. As to the window on the 
fifth floor, for some time that had been in the most perfect 
darkness. D’Harmental also went to bed, joyous to think 
that there existed a point of sympathy between himself and 
his neighbour. 

The next day the Abbé Brigaud entered the room with his 
accustomed punctuality. The chevalier had already been 
up more than an hour ; he had gone twenty times to his 
window, but without seeing his neighbour, although it was 
evident that she was up, even before himself ; indeed, on 
waking he had seen the large curtains put up in their 
bands. Thus he was disposed to let out his ill-humour on 
any one. 

“ Ah ! pardieu ! my dear abbé,” said he, as soon as the 
door was shut ; “ congratulate the prince for me on his 
police ; it is perfectly arranged, on my honour !” 

“What have you got against them ?” asked the abbé, with 
the half-smile which was habitual to him. 

“ What have I I I have, that, wishing to judge for myself, 
last evening, of its truth, I went and hid myself in the Rue 
Tournon. I remained there four hours, and it was not the 
regent who came to his daughter, but Madame de Berry who 
went to her father.” 

“ Well, we know that” 

j “Ah ! you know that !” said D’Harmental. 

“ Yes, and by this token, that she left the Luxembourg at 
five minutes to eight, with Madame de Mouchy and Madame 
de Pons, and that she returned at half-past nine, bringing 
Broglie with her, who came to take the regent’s place at 
table.” 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


** And where was the regent T 

“'The regent ?’* 

“Yes.” 

“ That is another story ; you shall learn. Listen, and do 
not lose a word ; then we shall see if you will say that the 
prince’s police is badly arranged.” 

“ I attend.” 

“ Our report announced that at three o’clock the duke- 
regent would go to play tennis in the Rue de Seine.” 

“ Ves.” 

“ He went. In about half-an-hour he left holding his 
handkerchief over his eyes. He had hit himself on the brow 
with the racket, and with such violence that he had torn the 
skin of his forehead.” 

“ Ah, this then was the accident !” 

“Listen. Then the regent, instead of returning to the 
Palais Royal, was driven to the house of Madame de Sabran. 
You know where Madame de Sabran lives ?” 

“She lived in the Rue de Tournon, but since her husband 
has become maître d’hotel to the regent, she lives in the 
Rue des Bons Enfants, near the Palais Royal.” 

“ Exactly ; but it seems that Madame de Sabran, who until 
now was faithful to Richelieu, was touched by the pitiable 
state in which she saw the prince, and wished to justify the 
proverb, ‘Unlucky at play, lucky at love.’ The prince, by a 
little note, dated half-past seven, from the drawing-room of 
Madame de Sabran, with whom he supped, announced to 
Broglie that he should not go to the Luxembourg, and 
charged him to go in his stead, and make his excuses to the 
Duchesse de Berry.” 

“ Ah, this then was the story which Broglie was telling, 
and at which the ladies were laughing.” 

“ It is probable ; now do you understand ?” 

“ Yes ; I understand that the regent is not possessed 
ubiquity, and could not be at the house of Madame de Sabran 
and at his daughter’s at the same time.’' 

“ And you only understand that ?” 

“ My dear abbé, you speak like an oracle ; explain your- 
self.” 

“This evening, at eight o’clock, I will come for you; we 



Madame de Sabran, 









PROS AND CONS. 89 

will go to the Rue des Bons Enfants together. To me the 
locality is eloquent.” 

“ Ah ! ah !” said D’Harmental, “ I see ; so near the Palais 
Royal, he will go on foot The hotel which Madame de 
Sabran inhabits has an entrance from the Rue des Bons 
Enfants ; after a certain hour they shut the passage from the 
Palais Royal, which opens on the Rue des Bons Enfants: 
and he will be obliged, on his return, to follow either the 
Cour des Fontaines, or the Rue Neuve des Bons Enfants, 
and then we shall have him. Mordieu ! you are a great 
man, and if Monsieur de Maine does not make you cardinal, 
or at least archbishop, there will be no justice done.” 

“ I think, therefore, that now you must hold yourself in 
readiness.” 

“ I am ready.** 

** Have you the means of execution prepared ?** 

“ I have.” 

** Then you can correspond with your men ?** 

“By a sign.” 

“ And that sign cannot betray you ?** 

“ Impossible.” 

“ Then all goes well, and we may have breakfast ; for I 
was in such haste to tell you the good news that I came out 
fasting.” 

“ Breakfast, my dear abbé ! you speak coolly ; I have no- 
thing to offer you, except the remains of the pâté and two or 
three bottles of wine, which, I believe, survived the battle.” 

“ Hum ! hum,” murmured the abbé ; “ we will do bettei 
than that, my dear chevalier.” 

“ I am at your orders.” 

“ Let us go down and breakfast with our good hostess, 
Madame Denis.” 

“ And why do you want me to breakfast with her ? Do 1 
know her ?” 

“ That concerns me. I shall present you as my pupil.” 

“ But we shall get a detestable breakfast.” 

“ Comfort yourself. I know her table.” 

“ But this breakfast will be tiresome.” 

“ But you will make a friend of a woman much known in 
the neighbourhood for her good conduct, for her devotion to 


90 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


the Government — a woman incapable of harbouring a con* 
spirator. Do you understand that ?” 

“ If it be for the good of the cause, abbé, I sacrifice my- 
self” 

“ Moreover, it is a very agreeable house, where there are 
two young people who play — one on the spinet, and the 
other on the guitar — and a young man who is an attorney’s 
clerfc ; a house where you may go down on Sunday evenings 
to play lots.” 

“ Go to the devil with your Madame Denis. Ah ! pardon, 
abbé, perhaps you are her friend. In that case, imagine that 
I have said nothing.” 

“ I am her confessor,” replied the Abbé Brigand, with a 
modest air. 

Then a thousand excuses, my dear abbé ; but you are 
right indeed. Madame Denis is still a beautiful woman, 
perfectly well preserved, with superb hands and very pretty 
feet. Peste ! I remember that. Go down first j I will 
follow.” 

“Why not together?” 

“ But my toilet, abbé. Would you have me appear before 
the Demoiselles Denis with my hair in its present state ? 
One must try to look one’s best — que diable 1 Besides, it is 
better that you should announce me : I have not a confessor’s 
privilege.” 

“ You are right. I will go down and announce you, and 
in ten minutes you will arrive — will you not ?” 

“ In ten minutes ” 

“ Adieu !” 

“ Au revoir !” 

The chevalier had only told half the truth. He might have 
remained partly to dress, but also in the hope of seeing his 
beautiful neighbour, of whom he had dreamed all the night, 
but in vain. He remained hidden behind the curtains of his 
window : those of the young girl with the fair hair and the 
beautiful black eyes remained closed. It is true that, in ex- 
change, he could perceive his neighbour, who, opening his 
door, passed out, with the same precaution as the day before, 
first his hand, then his head ; but this time his boldness 
went no further, for there was a slight fog, and fog is essen* 


PROS AND CONS, 


91 


lially contrary to the organisation of the Parisian bourgeois. 
Our friend coughed twice, and then, drawing in his head and 
his arm, re-entered his room like a tortoise into his shell 
D’Harmental saw with pleasure that he might dispense with 
buying a barometer, and that this neighbour would render 
him the same service as the butterflies which come out in 
the sunshine, and remain obstinately shut up in their her- 
mitages on the days when it rains. 

The apparition had its ordinary effect, and reacted on poor 
Bathilde. Every time that D’Harmental perceived the young 
girl, there was in her such a sweet attraction that he saw 
nothing but the woman — young, beautiful, and graceful, a 
musician and painter — that is to say, the most delicious and 
complete creature he had ever met. But when, in his turn, 
the man of the terrace presented himself to the chevalier’s 
gaze, with his common face, his insignificant figure — that 
indelible type of vulgarity which attaches to certain indi- 
viduals — directly a sort of miracHous transition took place in 
the chevalier’s mind. All the poetry disappeared, as a 
machinist’s whistle causes the disappearance of a fairy palace. 
Everything w'as seen by a different light D’Harmental’s 
native aristocracy regained the ascendancy. Bathilde was 
then nothing but the daughter of this man — that is to say, a 
grisette : her beauty, her grace, her elegance, even her talents, 
were but an accident — an error of nature — something like a 
rose flowering on a cabbage-stalk. The chevalier shrugged 
his shoulders as he stood before the glass, began to laugh, 
and to wonder at the impression which he had received. He 
attributed it to the pre-occupation of his mind, to the strange 
and solitary situation, to everything, in fact, except its true 
cause — the sovereign and irresistible power of distinction and 
beauty. D’Harmental went down to his hostess disposed to 
find the Demoiselles Denis charming. 


93 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE DENIS FAMILY. 

Madame Denis did not think it proper that two young per- 
sons as innocent as her daughters should breakfast with a 
young man who, although he had been only three days in 
Paris, already came in at eleven o’clock at night, and played 
on the harpsichord till two in the morning. In vain the 
Abbé Brigaud affirmed that this double infraction of the rules 
of her house should in no degree lower her opinion of his 
pupil, for whom he could answer as for himself. All he could 
obtain was that the young ladies should appear at the dessert ; 
but the chevalier soon pefceived that if their mother had 
ordered them not to be seen, she had not forbidden them to 
be heard, for scarcely were they at table, round a veritable 
devotee’s breakfast, composed of a multitude of little dishes, 
tempting to the eye and delicious to the palate, when the 
sounds of a spinet were heard, accompanying a voice which 
was not wanting in compass, but whose frequent errors of 
intonation showed lamentable inexperience. At the first notes 
Madame Denis placed her hand on the abbé’s arm, then, 
after an instant’s silence, during which she listened with a 
pleased smile to that music which made the chevalier’s flesh 
creep, “ Do you hear?” she said. “ It is our Athenais who 
is playing, and it is Emilie who sings.” 

The Abbé Brigaud, making signs that he heard perfectly, 
trod on D’Harmental’s foot under the table, to hint that this 
was an opportunity for paying a compliment. 

Madame,” said the chevalier, who understood this appeal 
to his politeness perfectly, “ we are doubly indebted to you ; 
for you offer us not only an excellent breakfast, but a delight- 
ful concert.” 

“Yes,” replied Madame Denis, negligently, “it is those 
children : they do not know you are here, and they are prac- 
tising ; but I will go and tell them to stop.’* 


THE DENIS FAMILY. 


93 


Madame Denis was going to rise. 

“ What, madame !” said D’Harmental, ** because I come 
from Ravenne do you believe me unworthy to make acquain- 
tance with the talents of the capital ?” 

‘‘ Heaven preserve me, monsieur, from having such an 
opinion of you,” said Madame Denis, maliciously, “ for I 
know you are a musician ; the lodger on the third story told 
me so.” 

“ In that case, madame, perhaps he did not give you a 
very high idea of my merit,” replied the chevalier, laughing, 
“for he did not appear to appreciate the little I may 
possess.” 

“ He only said that it appeared to him a strange time for 
music. But listen. Monsieur Raoul,” added Madame Denis, 
“ the parts are changed now, my dear abbé, it is our Athenais 
who sings, and it is Emilie who accompanies her on the 
guitar.” 

It appeared that Madame Denis had a weakness for 
Athenais, for instead of talking as she did when Emilie was 
singing, she listened from one end to the other to the romance 
of her favourite, her eyes tenderly fixed on the Abbé Brigand, 
who, still eating and drinking, contented himself with nodding 
his head in sign of approbation. Athenais sang a little more 
correctly than her sister, but for this she made up by a defect 
at least equivalent in the eyes of the chevalier. Her voice 
was equally vulgar. 

As to Madame Denis, she beat wrong time with her head, 
with an air of beatitude which did infinitely more honour to 
her maternal affection than to her musical intelligence. 

A duet succeeded to the solos. The young ladies appeared 
determined to give their whole répertoire. D’Harmental, in 
his turn, sought under the table for the abbé’s foot, to crush 
at least one, but he only found those of Madame Denis, who, 
taking this for a personal attention, turned graciously towards 
him. 

“Then, Monsieur Raoul,” she said, “you come, young 
and inexperienced, to brave all the dangers of the capital ?” 

“ Yes,” said the Abbé Brigand, taking upon himself to 
answer, for fear that D’Harmental might not be able to resist 
answ'ering by some joke. “You see in this young man, 


94 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


Madame Denis, the son of a friend who was very dear to 
me ” (the abbé put his table-napkin up to his eyes), “ and 
whona, I hope, will do credit to the care I have bestowed on 
his education.” 

“ And monsieur is right,” replied Madame Denis ; “ for, 
with his talents and appearance, there is no saying to what he 
may attain.” 

“Ah ! but, Madame Denis,” said the Abbé Brigaud, “ if 
you spoil him thus I shall not bring him to you again. My 
dear Raoul,” continued the abbé, addressing him in a pater- 
nal manner, “ I hope you will not believe a word of all this.” 
Then, whispering to Madame Denis, “ Such as you see him, 
he might have remained at Sauvigny, and taken the first place 
after the squire. He has three thousand livres a year in the 
funds.” 

“ That is exactly what I intend giving to each of my 
daughters,” replied Madame Denis, raising her voice, so as 
to be heard by the chevalier, and giving a side-glance to dis- 
cover what effect the announcement of such magnificence 
would have upon him. 

Unfortunately for the future establishment of the Demoi- 
selles Denis, the chevalier was not thinking of uniting the 
three thousand livres which this generous mother gave to 
her daughters to the thousand crowns a-year which the Abbé 
Brigaud had bestowed on him. The shrill treble of Made- 
moiselle Emilie, the contralto of Mademoiselle Athenais, the 
accompaniment of both, had recalled to his recollection the 
pure and flexible voice and the distinguished execution of his 
neighbour. Thanks to that singular power which a great 
pre-occupation gives us over exterior objects, the chevalier 
had escaped from the charivari which was executed in the ad- 
joining room, and was following a sweet melody which floated 
in his mind, and which protected him, like an enchanted 
armour, from the sharp sounds which were flying around him. 

“ How he listens !” said Madame Denis to Brigaud. “’Tis 
worth while taking trouble for a young man like that I shall 
have a bone to pick with Monsieur Frémond.” 

“ Who is Monsieur Frémond ?” said the abbé, pouring 
himself out something to drink. 

“ It is the lodger on the third floor. A contemptible little 


THE DENIS FAMILY. 


95 


fellow, with twelve hundred francs a year, and whose temper 
has caused me to have quarrels with every one in the house ; 
and who came to complain that Monsieur Raoul prevented 
him and his dog from sleeping/* 

My dear Madame Denis,” replied the abbé, “ you must 
not quarrel with Monsieur Frémond for that. Two o’clock 
in the morning is an unreasonable time ; and if my pupil 
must sit up till then, he must play in the day-time and draw 
in the evening.” 

What ! Monsieur Raoul draws also !” cried Madame 
Denis, quite astonished at so much talent. 

“ Draws like Mignard.” 

“ Oh ! my dear abbé,” said Madame Denis, “if you could 
but obtain one thing.” 

“What ?” asked the abbé. 

“ That he w’ould take the portrait of our Athenais.” 

The chevalier awoke from his reverie, as a traveller, asleep 
on the grass, feels a serpent glide up to him, and instinctively 
understands that a great danger threatens him. 

“ Abbé 1” cried he, in a bewildered manner, “ no folly !” 

“ Oh ! what is the matter with your pupil ?” asked Madame 
Denis, quite frightened. 

Happily, at the moment when the abbé was seeking a sub- 
terfuge, the door opened, and the two young ladies entered 
blushing, and, stepping from right to left, each made a low 
courtesy. 

“ Well !” said Madame Denis, affecting an air of severity, 
“what is this? Who gave you permission to leave your 
room ?” ' 

“ Mamma,” replied a voice which the chevalier recognised, 
by its shrill tones, for that of Mademoiselle Emilie, “ we beg 
pardon if we have done wrong, and are willing to return.” ^ 

“ But, mamma.” said another voice, which the chevalier 
concluded must belong to Mademoiselle Athenais, “we 
thought that it was agreed that we w'ere to come in at 
dessert.” 

“Well, come in, since you are here; it would be ridiculous 
now to go back. Besides,” added Madame Denis, seating 
Athenais between herself and Brigaud, and Emilie between 
herself and the chevalier, “ young persons are always best- 
are they not, abbé ? — under their mother’s wing.” 


96 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


And Madame Denis presented to her daughters a plate of 
bon-bons, from which they helped themselves with a modest 
air which did honour to their education. 

The chevalier, during the discourse and action of Madame 
Denis, had time to examine her daughters. 

Mademoiselle Emilie was a tall and stiff personage, from 
twenty-two to twenty-three, who was said to be very much 
like her late father; an advantage which did not, however, 
suffice to gain for her in the maternal heart an affection equal 
to what Madame Denis entertained for her other two children. 
Thus poor Emilie, always afraid of being scolded, retained a 
natural awkwardness, which the repeated lessons of her 
dancing-master had not been able to conquer. 

Mademoiselle Athenais, on the contrary, was little, plump, 
and rosy ; and, thanks to her sixteen or seventeen years, had 
what is vulgarly called the devil’s beauty. She did not re- 
semble either Monsieur or Madame Denis, a singularity 
which had often exercised the tongues of the Rue St Martin 
before she went to inhabit the house which her husband had 
bought in the Rue du Temps Perdu. In spite of this absence 
of all likeness to her parents. Mademoiselle Athenais was the 
declared favourite of her mother, which gave her the assu- 
rance that poor Emilie wanted. Athenais, however, it must 
be said, always profited by this favour to excuse the pretended 
faults of her sister. 

Although it was scarcely eleven o’clock in the morning, the 
two sisters were dressed as if for a ball, and carried all the 
trinkets they possessed on their necks, arms, and ears. 

This apparition, so conformable to the idea which D’Har- 
mental had formed beforehand of the daughters of his land- 
lady, gave him a new subject for reflection." Since the Demoi- 
selles Denis were so exactly what they ought to be, that is to 
say, in such perfect harmony with their position and educa- 
tion, why was Bathilde, who seemed their equal in rank, as 
visibly distinguished as they were vulgar? Whence came 
this immense difference between girls of the same class and 
age ? There must be some secret, which the chevalier would 
no doubt know some day or other. A second pressure of the 
Abbé Brigaud’s foot against his made him understand that, 
however true his reflections were, he had chosen a bad 


THE DENIS FA MIL Y, 


9Î 

iTioment for abandoning himself to them. Indeed, Madame 
Denis took so sovereign an air of dignity, that D’Harmental 
saw that he had not an instant to lose if he wished to efface 
from her mind the bad impression which his distraction had 
caused. 

Madame, said he directly, with the most gracious air he 
cx)uld assume, “that which I already see of your family fills 
Hie with the most lively desire to know the rest. Is not your 
son at home, and shall not I have the pleasure of seeing him ?” 

“Monsieur,” answered Madame Denis, to whom so amiable 
an address had restored all her good humour, “ my son is 
with Mr. Joulu, his master; and, unless his business brings 
him this way, it is improbable that he will make your ac- 
quaintance.” 

“ Parbleu ! my dear pupil,” said the Abbé Brigaud, extend- 
ing his hand towards the door ; “ you are like Aladdin. It 
is enough for you to express a wish, and it is fulfilled.” 

Indeed, at this moment they heard on the staircase the song 
about Marlborough, which at this time had all the charm of 
novelty ; the door was thrown open, and gave entrance to a 
boy with a laughing face, who much resembled Mademoiselle 
Athenais. 

“ Good, good, good,” said the nevz-comer, crossing his 
arms, and remarking the ordinary number of his family in- 
creased by the abbé and the chevalier. “ Not bad, Madame 
Denis ; she sends Boniface to his office with a bit of bread 
and cheese, saying, ‘ Beware of indigestion,’ and, in his ab- 
sence, she gives feasts and suppers. Luckily, poor Boniface 
fhas a good nose. He comes through the Rue Montmartre ; 
•he snuffs the wind, and says, ‘ What is going on there at 
No. 5, Rue du Temps Perdu ?’ So he came, and here he is. 
Make a place for one.” 

And, joining the action to the word, Boniface drew a chair 
to the table, and sat down between the abbé and the chevalier. 

“ Monsieur Boniface,” said Madame Denis, trying to as- 
sume a severe air, “ do you not see that there are strangers 
here ?” 

“ Strangers !” said Boniface, taking a aish from the table, 
and setting it before himself ; “ and who are the strangers ? 
Are you one. Papa Brigaud? Are you one, Monsieur Raoul? 

7 


$8 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


You are not a stranger, you are a lodger.” Atid, taking a 
knife and fork, he set to work in a manner to make up for 
lost time. 

** Pardieu ! madame,” said the chevalier, “ I see with plea- 
sure that I am further advanced than I thought I was. I did 
not know that I had the honour of being known to Monsieur 
Boniface.” 

“ It would be odd if I did not know you,” said the lawyer’s 
clerk, with his mouth full ; you have got my bed-room.” 

“How, Madame Denis!” said D’Harmental, “and you 
left me in ignorance that I had the honour to succeed in my 
room to the heir-apparent of your family ? I am no longer 
astonished to find my room so gaily fitted up ; I recognise 
the cares of a mother.” 

“ Yes, much good may it do you ; but I have one bit of 
advice to give you. Don’t look out of window too much.” 

“ Why ?” asked D’Harmental. 

“ Why ? because you have a certain neighbour opposite 
you.” 

“ Mademoiselle Bathilde,” said the chevalier, carried away 
by his first impulse. 

“ Ah ! you know that already ?” answered Boniface ; 
.“good, good, good ; that will do.” 

“ Will you be quiet, monsieur !” cried Madame Denis. 

Listen!” answered Boniface; “one must inform one’s 
lodgers when one has prohibited things about one’s house. 
You are not in a lawyer’s office ; you do not know that.” 

“ The child is full of wit,” said the Abbé Brigaud in that 
bantering tone, thanks to which it was impossible to know 
whether he w^s serious or not. 

“ But,” answered Madame Denis, “ what would you have 
in common between Monsieur Raoul and Bathilde ?” 

“ What in common ? Why, in a w^ek, he will be madly 
in love with her, and it is not worth loving a coquette.” 

“ A coquette ?’’ said D’Harmental. 

.“Yes, a coquette, a coquette,” çaid Boniface; “I have 
said it, and I do not draw back. A coquette, who flirts with 
the young men and lives with an old one, without counting 
that little brute of a Mirza, who eats up all my bon-bons, 
and now bites me every time she meets me.” 


THE DEXIS FAMILY, 


99 

^ “Leave the room, mesdemoiselles,’' cried Madame Denis, 
rising and making her daughters rise also. “ Leave the room. 
Ears so pure as yours ought not to hear such things.” 

And she pushed Mademoiselle Athenais and Mademoiselle 
Emilie towards the door of their room, where she entered 
with them. 

As to D’Harmental, he felt a violent desire to break Boni- 
face’s head with a wine-bottle. Nevertheless, seeing the 
absurdity of the situation, he made an effort and restrained 
himself. 

“ But,” said he, “ I thought that the bourgeois whom 1 saw 
on the terrace — for no doubt it is of him that you speak. 
Monsieur Boniface ” 

“ Of himself, the old rascal ; what did you think of him ?” 

“That he was her father.” 

“ Her father ! not quite. Mademoiselle Bathilde has no 
father.” 

“ Then, at least, her uncle ?” 

“ Her uncle after the Bretagne fashion, but in no other 
manner.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Madame Denis, majestically coming out 
of the room, to the most distant part of which she had 
doubtless consigned her daughters, “ I have asked you, once 
for all, not to talk improprieties before your sisters.” 

“ Ah, yes,” said Boniface, “ my sisters ; do you believe 
that, at their age, they cannot understand what I said, par- 
ticularly Emilie, who is three-and-twenty years old?” 

“ Emilie is as innocent as a new-born child,” said Madame 
Denis, seating herself bet w^een Brigaud and D’Harmental. 

“I should advise you not to reckon on that I foynd a 
pretty romance for Lent in our innocent’s room. I will show 
it to you. Père Brigaud ; you are her confessor, and w e shall 
see if you gave her permission to read her prayers from it” 

“ Hold your tongue, mischief-maker,” said the abbé, “ do 
you not see how you are grieving your mother ?” 

Indeed Madame Denis, ashamed at this scene passing 
before a young man on whom, with a mother’s foresight, she 
had already begun to cast an eye, w^as nearly fainting. There 
is nothing in which men believe less than in women’s faint- 
ings,and nothing to which they give way more easily. Whether 

7—2 


LofC. 


too 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


he believed m it or not, D’Harmental was too polite not to 
show his hostess some attention in such circumstances. He 
advanced towards her with his arms extended. Madame 
Denis no sooner saw this support offered to her than she let 
herself fall, and, throwing her head back, fainted in the 
chevalier’s arms. 

Abbé,” said D’Harmental, while Boniface profited by the 
circumstance to fill his pockets with all the bon-bons left on 
the table, ‘‘ bring a chair.” 

The abbé pushed forward a chair with the nonchalance of 
a man familiar with such accidents, and who is beforehand 
quite secure as to the result. 

They seated Madame Denis, and D’Harmental gave her 
some salts, while the Abbe Brigaud tapped her softly in the 
hollow of the hand ; but, in spite of these cares, Madame 
Denis did not appear disposed to return to herself ; when 
all at once, when they least expected it, she started to her 
feet as if by a spring, and gave a loud cry. 

D’Harmental thought that a fit of hysterics was following 
the fainting. He was truly frightened, there was such an 
accent of reality in the scream that the poor woman gave. 

“ It is nothing,” said Boniface, “ I have only just emptied 
the water-bottle down her back. That is what brought her 
to ; you saw that she did not know how to manage it. Well, 
what ?” continued the pitiless fellow, seeing Madame Denis 
look angrily at him ; “it is I ; do you not recognise me, 
Mother Denis ? It is your little Boniface, who loves you so.” 

“ Madame,” said D’Harmental, much embarrassed at the 
situation, “ I am truly distressed at what has passed.” 

“ Oh ! monsieur,” cried Madame Denis in tears, “ I am 
indeed unfortunate.” 

“ Come, come ; do not cry. Mother Denis, you are already 
wet enough,” said Boniface ; “ you had better go and change 
your linen ; there is nothing so unhealthy as wet clothes.” 

“ The child is full of sense,” said Brigaud, “and I think 
you had better follow his advice.” 

“ If I might join my prayers to those of the abbé,” said 
D'Harmental, “I should beg you, madame, not to inconve- 
nience yourself for us. Besides, we were just going to take 
leave of you.” 


THE DENIS FAMILY. 


loi 


And you, also, abbé ?” said Madame Denis, with a dis- 
tîossed look at Brigaud. 

“ As for me,” said Brigaud, who did not seem to fancy the 
part of comforter, “ I am expected at the Hôtel Colbert, and 
I must leave you.” 

“ Adieu, then,” said Madame Denis, making a curtsey, but 
the water trickling down her clothes took away a great part 
of its dignity. 

“ Adieu, mother,” said Boniface, throwing his arms round 
her neck with the assurance of a spoiled child. “ Have you 
nothing to say to Maître Joulu?” 

‘ Adieu, mauvais sujet,” replied the poor woman, embrac- 
ing her son, and yielding to that attraction which a mother 
cannot resist ; “ adieu, and be steady.” 

“As an image, mother, on condition that you will give us 
a nice lytle dish of sweets for dinner.” 

He joined the Abbé Brigaud and D’Harmental, who were 
already on the landing. 

“ Well, well,” said the abbé, lifting his hand quickly to his 
waistcoat pocket, “ what are you doing there ?” 

“ Oh, I was only looking if there w’as not a crown in your 
pocket for your friend Boniface.” 

“ Here,” said the abbé, “ here is one, and now leave us 
alone.” 

“Papa Brigaud,” said Boniface, in the effusion of his 
gratitude, “you have the heart of a cardinal, and if the king 
only makes you an archbishop, on my honour you will be 
robbed of half. Adieu, Monsieur Raoul,” continued he, 
addressing the chevalier as familiarly as if he had known him 
for years. “ I repeat, take care of Mademoiselle Bathilde if 
you wish to keep your heart, and give some sweetmeats to 
Mirza if you care for your legs ;” and holding by the banister, 
he cleared the first flight of twelve steps at one bound, and 
reached the street door without having touched a stair. 

Brigaud descended more quietly behind him, after having 
given the chevalier a rendezvous for eight o’clock in the 
evening. 

As to D’Haxmental, he went back thoughtfully to his sttUç. 


102 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

THE CRIMSON RIBBON. 

What occupied the mind of the chevalier was neither the 
denouement of the drama where he had chosen so important 
a part, nor the admirable prudence of the Abbé Brigaud 
in placing him in a house which he habitually visited almost 
daily, so that his visits, however frequent, could not be re- 
markable. It was not the dignified speeches of Madame 
Denis, nor the soprano of Mademoiselle Emilie. It was 
neither the contralto of Mademoiselle Athenais, nor the tricks 
of M. Boniface. It was simply poor Bathilde, whom he had 
heard so lightly spoken of ; but our reader would be mis- 
taken if he supposed that M. Boniface’s brutal accusation 
had in the least degree altered the sentiments of the chevalier 
for the young girl, for an instant’s reflection showed him that 
such an alliance was impossible. 

Chance might give a charming daughter to an undistin- 
guished father. Necessity may unite a young and elegant 
woman to an old and vulgar husband, but a liaison, such as 
that attributed to the young girl and the bourgeois of the 
terrace, can only result from love or interest. Now between 
these two there could be no love ; and as to interest, the 
thing was still less probable ; for, if they were not in absolute 
poverty, their situation was certainly not above mediocrity — 
not even that gilded mediocrity of which Horace speaks, with 
a country house at Tibur and Montmorency, and which 
results from a pension of thirty thousand sestercia from the 
Augustan treasury, or a government annuity of six thousand 
francs — but that poor and miserable mediocrity which only 
provides from day to day, and which is only prevented from 
becoming real poverty by incessant labour. 

D’Harmental gathered from all this the certainty that 
Bathilde was neither the daughter, wife, nor mistress of this 
terrible neighbour, the sight of whom had sufficed to produce 
such a strange reaction on the growing love of the chevalier. 


THE CKIMSON RIBBON. 


103 


If she was neither the one nor the other, there was a mystery 
about her birth ; and if so, Bathilde was not what she ap- 
peared to be. All was explained, her aristocratic beauty, her 
finished education. Bathilde was above the position which 
she was temporarily forced to occupy : there had been in the 
destiny of this young girl one of those overthrows of fortune, 
which are for individuals what earthquakes are for towns, and 
she had been forced to descend to the inferior sphere where 
he found her. 

The result of all this was, that the chevalier might, with- 
out losing rank in his own estimation, allow himself to love 
Bathilde. When a man’s heart is at war with his pride, he 
seldom wants excuses to defeat his haughty enemy. Bathilde 
had now neither name nor family, and nothing prevented the 
imagination of the man w'ho loved her from raising her to a 
height even above his own ; consequently, instead of follow- 
ing the friendly advice of M. Boniface, the first thing D’Har- 
mental did was to go to his window and inspect that of his 
neighbour. It w^as wide open. If, a week ago, any one had 
told the chevalier that such a simple thing as an open window 
w'ould have made his heart beat, he would have laughed at 
the idea. How'ever, so it w^as ; and after drawing a long 
breath, he settled himself in a corner, to watch at his ease 
the young girl in the opposite room, without being seen by 
her, for he was afraid of frightening ker by that attention 
which she could only attribute to curiosity, but he soon per- 
ceived that the room was deserted. 

D’Harmentai then opened his window, and at the noise he 
made in doing so, he saw the elegant head of the greyhound, 
which, with his ears always on the watch, and well worthy of 
the trust that her mistress had reposed in her, in making her 
guardian of the house, was awake, and looking to see who it 
was that thus disturbed her sleep. 

Thanks to the indiscreet counter-tenor of the good man of 
the terrace and the malice of M. Boniface, the chevalier 
already knew two things very important to know — namely, 
that his neighbour was called Bathilde, a sweet and eupho- 
nious appellation, suitable to a young, beautiful, and graceful 
girl ; and that the greyhound was called Mirza, a name which 
seemed to indicate a no less distinguished rank in the canine 


104 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


aristocracy. Now as nothing is to be disdained Vv^hen we 
wish to conquer a fortress, and the smallest intelligence from 
within is often more efficacious than the most terrible ma- 
chines of war, D’Harmental resolved to commence opening 
communications with the greyhound; and with the most 
caressing tone he could give to his voice, he called Mirza. 
Mirza, who was indolently lying on the cushion, raised her 
head quickly, with an expression of unmistakable astonish- 
ment ; and, indeed, it must have appeared strange to the 
intelligent little animal, that a man so perfectly unknown to 
her as the chevalier should address her by her Christian name. 
She contented herself with fixing on him her uneasy eyes, 
which, in the half-light where she was placed, sparkled like 
two carbuncles, and uttering a little dull sound which might 
pass for a growl 

D’Harmental remembered that the Marquis d’Uxelle had 
tamed the spaniel of Mademoiselle Choin, which was a much 
more peevish beast than any greyhound in the world, with 
roast rabbits’ heads ; and that he had received for this deli- 
cate attention the baton of Maréchal de France ; and he did 
not despair of being able to soften by the same kind of atten- 
tion the surly reception which Mademoiselle Mirza had given 
to his advances ; so he went towards the sugar-basin ; then 
returned to the window, armed with two pieces of sugar, 
large enough to be divided ad infinitum. 

The chevalier was not mistaken ; at the first piece of sugar 
which fell near her, Mirza negligently advanced her head; 
then, being by the aid of smell made aware of the nature of 
the temptation offered to her, she extended her paw towards 
it, drew it towards her, took it in her teeth, and began to 
eat it with that languid air peculiar to the race to which she 
belonged. This operation finished, she passed over her 
mouth a little red tongue, which showed, that in spite of her 
apparent indifference, which was owing, no doubt, to her 
excellent education, she was not insensible to the surprise 
her neighbour had prepared for her ; instead of lying down 
again on the cushion as she had done the first time, she re- 
mained seated, yawning languidly, but wagging her tail, to 
show that she would wake entirely, after two or three such 
little attentions as she had just had paid to her. 


THE CRIMSON RIBBON 


loS 

D^Harmental, who was well acquainted with the habits of 
all the King Charles’ dogs of the pretty women of the day, 
understood the amiable intentions of Mirza, and not wishing 
to give her time to change her mind, threw a second piece of 
sugar, taking care that it should fall at such a distance as to 
oblige her to leave her cushion to get it. This test would 
decide whether she was most inclined to laziness or greedi- 
ness. Mirza remained an instant uncertain, but then greedi- 
ness carried the day, and she went across the room to fetch 
the piece of sugar, which had rolled under the harpsichord. 
At this moment a third piece fell near the window, and Mirza 
came towards it ; but there the liberality of the chevalier 
stopped ; he thought that he had now given enough to require 
some return, and he contented himself with calling Mirza in 
a more imperative tone, and showing her the other pieces of 
sugar which he held in his hand. 

Mirza this tim.e, instead of looking at the chevalier with 
uneasiness or disdain, rested her pav\s on the window, and 
began to behave as she would to an old acquaintance. It was 
finished ; Mirza was tamed. 

The chevalier remarked that it was now his turn to play 
the contemptuous with Mirza, and to speak to her, in order 
to accustom her to his voice ; however, fearing a return of 
pride on the part of his interlocutor, who sustained her part 
in the dialogue by little whines and grumblings, he threw' her 
a fourth piece of sugar, which she seized with greater avidity 
from having been kept waiting. This time, w'ithout being 
called, she came to take her place at the window. The 
chevalier’s triumph w'as complete. So complete, that Mirzg, 
who the day before had given signs of so superior an intelli- 
gence in discovering Bathilde’s return, and in running to the 
door as she descended the staircase, this time discovered 
neither the one nor the other, so that her mistress, entering 
all at once, surprised her in the midst of these coquetries w'ith 
her neighbour. It is but just to say, however, that at the 
noise the door made in opening Mirza turned, and recognis- 
ing Bathilde, bounded towards her, lavishing on her the most 
tender caresses ; but we must add, to the shame of the species, 
that this duty once accomplished, she hastened back to the 
window. This unusual action on the part of the dog naturally 


THE CONSPIRATORS» 


lo6 

guided Bathilde’s eyes towards the cause which occasioned 
it. Her eyes met those of the chevalier. 

Bathilde blushed : the chevalier bowed ; and Bathilde, 
without knowing what she was doing, returned the salute 

Her first impulse was to go and close the window, but an 
instinctive feeling restrained her. She understood that this 
was giving importance to a thing which had none,’ and that 
to put herself on the defensive was to avow herself attacked. 
In consequence, she crossed to that part of the room where 
her neighbour’s glance could not reach. Then, at the end of 
a few minutes, when she returned, she found that he had 
closed his window. Bathilde understood that there was dis- 
cretion in this action, and she thanked him. Indeed, the 
chevalier had just made a master stroke. On the terms 
which he was on with his neighbour, it was impossible that 
both windows should remain open at once ; if the chevalier’s 
window was open, his neighbour’s must be shut; and he 
knew that when that was closed, there was not a chance of 
seeing even the tip of Mirza’s nose behind the curtain ; while 
if, on the contrary, his window was closed, hers might possibly 
remain open, and he could watch her passing to and fro, or 
working, which w:as a great amusement for a poor devil con- 
demned to absolute seclusion ; besides, he had made an im- 
mense step : — he had saluted Bathilde, and she had returned 
it They were no longer strangers to each other, but, in 
order that their acquaintance might advance, he must be 
careful not to be too brusque. To risk speaking to her 
after the salute would have been risking too much ; it was 
better to allow Bathilde to believe that it was all the effect of 
chance. Bathilde did not believe it, but she appeared to do 
so. The result was that she left her window open, and, seeing 
her neighbour’s closed, sat down by her own with a book 
in her hand. As to Mirza, she jumped on to the stool at her 
mistress’s feet, but instead of resting her head as usual on the 
knees of the young girl, she placed it on the sill of the window, 
so much was she occupied with the generous unknown. The 
chevalier seated himself in the middle of his room, took 
his pencils, and thanks to a corner of his curtain skilfully 
raised, he sketched the delicious picture before him. Un- 
fortunately the days were short, and towards three o’clock 


THE CRIMSON RIBBON, 


T07 


the little light which the clouds and rain had permitted to 
descend to the earth began to decline, and Bathilde closed 
her window. Nevertheless, even in this short time the 
chevalier had finished the young girl’s head, and the likeness 
was perfect. There was her waving hair, her fine transparent 
skin, the graceful curve of her swan-like neck in fact, all to 
which art can attain with one of those inimitable models 
which are the despair of artists. 

When night closed in, the Abbé Brigand arrived. The 
chevalier and he wrapped themselves in their mantles, and 
went towards the Palais Royal ; they had, it will be remem- 
bered, to examine the ground. The house in which Madame 
de Sabran lived, since her husband had been named maitre 
d’hôtel to the regent, was No. 22, between the Hôtel de la 
Roche-Guyon and the passage formerly called Passage du 
Palais Royal, because it was the only one leading from the 
Rue des Bons Enfants to the Rue de Valois. This passage# 
now called Passage du Lycée, was closed at the same time 
as the other gates . of the garden ; that is to say, at eleven 
o’clock in the evening ; therefore, having once entered a 
house in the Rue des Bons Enfants, unless it had a second 
door opening on the Rue de Valois, po one could return to 
the Palais Royal after eleven o’clock without making the 
round, either by the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs, or by 
the Cour des Fontaines. 

Thus it was with Madame de Sabran’s house ; it was an 
exquisite little hotel, built towards the end of the last cen- 
tury, some five-and-twenty years before, by a merchant who 
wished to ape the great lords and have a petite maison of 
his own. It was a one-storied house, with a stone gallery, 
on which the servants’ attics opened, and surmounted by a 
low tilted roof. Under the first-floor windows was a large 
balcony which jutted out three or four feet, and extended 
right across the house ; but some iron ornaments, similar to 
the balcony, and which reached to the terrace, separated the 
two windows on each side from the three in the centre, as is 
often done when it is desired to interrupt exterior communi- 
cations, The two façades were exactly similar, only, as the 
Rue de Valois was eight or ten feet lower than that of the 
Bons Enfants, the ground-floor windows and door opened on 


io8 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


a terrace, wnere was a little garden, filled m spring with 
charming flowers, but which did not communicate with the 
street, the only entrance being, as we have said, in the Rue 
des Bons Enfants. 

This was all our conspirators could wish ; the regent, once 
entered into Madame de Sabran’s house, would — provided 
he stayed after eleven o’clock, which was probable — be taken 
as in a trap, and nothing would be easier than to carry out 
their plan in the Rue des Bons Enfants, one of the most 
deserted and gloomy places in the neighbourhood ; more- 
over, as this street was surrounded by very suspicious houses, 
and frequented by very bad company, it was a hundred to 
one that they would not pay any attention to cries which 
were too frequent in that street to cause any uneasiness, and 
that if the watch arrived, it would be, according to the custc*"n 
of that estimable force, long after their intervention could be 
of any avail. The inspection of the ground finished, the 
plans laid, and the number of the house taken, they separated; 
the abbé to go to the Arsenal to give Madame de Maine an 
account of the proceedings, and D’Harmental to return to 
his attic. 

As on the preceding night, Bathilde’s room was lighted, 
but this time the young girl was not drawing but working ; 
her light was not put out till one o’clock in the morning. As 
to the good man, he had retired long before D’Harmental 
returned. The chevalier slept badly ; between a love at its 
commencement and a conspiracy at its height, he naturally 
experienced some sensations little favourable to sleep ; but 
towards morning fatigue prevailed, and he only awoke on 
feeling himself violently shaken by the arm. Without doubt 
the chevalier was at that moment in some bad dream, of which 
this appeared to him the end, for, still half asleep, he stretched 
out his hand towards the pistols which were at his side. 

“ Ah, ah r* cried the abbé, “ an instant, young man. What 
a hurry you are in 1 Open your eyes wide — so. Do you not 
recognise me ?” 

“ Ah !” said D’Harmental, laughing, ** it is 5 ^ou, abbé. You 
did well to stop me. I dreamed that I was arrested.” 

“ A good sign,” said the Abbé Brigand : “ you know that 
dreams always go by contraries. All will go well’* 


THE CRIMSON RIBBON, 


109 


“Is there anything new?” asked D’Harmental. 

“ And if there were, how would you receive it ?” 

“ I should be enchanted. A thing of this kind or.ce 
undertaken, the sooner it is finished the better.” 

“Well, then,” said Brigaud, drawing a paper from his 
pocket and presenting it to the chevalier, “ read, and glorify 
the name of the Lord, for you have your wish.” 

D’Harmental took the paper, unfolded it as calmly as if it 
were a matter of no moment, and read as follows ; 

Report of the of March. 

“Two in the Morning. 

“ To-night at ten o’clock the regent received a courier from 
London, who announces for to-morrow the arrival of the 
Abbé Dubois. As by chance the regent was supping with 
madame, the despatch was given to him in spite of the late 
hour. Some minutes before. Mademoiselle de Chartres had 
asked permission of her father to perform her devotions at 
the Abbey of Chelles, and he has promised to conduct her 
there ; but on the receipt of this letter his determination was 
changed, and he has ordered the council to meet at noon. 

“ At three o’clock the regent will pay his majesty a visit 
at the Tuileries. He has asked for a tête-à-tête, for he is 
beginning to be impatient at the obstinacy of the Maréchal 
de Villeroy, who will always be present at the interviews 
between the regent and his majesty. Report says that if this 
obstinacy continue, it will be the worse for the marshal. 

“At six o’clock, the regent, the Chevalier de Simiane, and 
the Chevalier de Ravanne, will sup with Madame de Sabran.” 

“Ah, ah !” said D’Harmental; and he read the last sen- 
tence, weighing every word. 

“ Well, what do you think of this paragraph ?” asked the 
abbé. 

The chevalier jumped from his bed, put on his dressing- 
gown, took from his drawer a crimson ribbon, a hammer and 
a nail, and having opened his window (not without throwing 
a stolen glance at that of his neighbour), he nailed the ribbon 
on to the outer wall. 

“ There is my answer,” said he. 

“ What the devil does that mean V 


no 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ That means,” said D’Harmental, “ that you may go and 
tell Madame de Maine that I hope this evening to fulfil my 
promise to her. And now go away, my dear abbé, and do 
not come back for two hours, for I expect some one whom it 
would be better you should not meet.” 

The abbé, wlrp was prudence itself, did not wait to be told 
twice, but pressed the chevalier’s hand and left him. Twenty 
minutes afterwards Captain Roquefinette entered* 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE RUE DES BONS ENFANTS. 

The evening of the same day, which was Sunday, towards 
eight o’clock, at the moment when a considerable group of 
.men and women, assembled round a street singer who was 
playing at the same time the cymbals with his knees and the 
tambourine with his hands, obstructed the entrance to the Rue 
de Valois, a musketeer and two of the light horse descended 
a back staircase of the Palais Royal, and advanced towards 
the Passage du Lycée, which, as everyone knows, opened on 
to that street ; but seeing the crowd which barred the way, 
the three soldiers stopped and appeared to take counsel. 
The result of their deliberation was doubtless that they must 
take another route, for the musketeer, setting the example of 
a new manoeuvre, threaded the Cour des Fontaines, turned 
the corner of the Rue des Bons Enfants, and walking rapidly 
— though he was extremely corpulent — arrived at No. 22, 
which opened as by enchantment at his approach, and closed 
again on him and his two companions. 

At the moment when they commenced this little détour, 
a young man, dressed in a dark coat, wrapped in a mantle 
of the same colour, and wearing a broad-brimmed hat pulled 
down over his eyes, quitted the group which surrounded the 
singer, singing himself, to the tune of Les Pendus, “ Vingt- 
quatre, vingt-quatre, vingt-quatre,” and advancing rapidly 
towards the Passage du Lyc^, arrived at the further end in 


THE RUE DES BONS ENFANTS, 


1X1 


time to see the three illustrious vagabonds enter the house as 
we have said. He threw a glance round him, and by the 
light of one of the three lanthorns, which lighted, or rather 
ought to have lighted, the whole length of the street, he p^r. 
ceived one of those immense coalheavers, with a face the 
colour of soot, so well stereotyped by Greuze, who was resting 
against one of the posts of the Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon, 
on which he had hung his bag. For an instant he appeared 
to hesitate to approach this man ; but the coal heaver 
having sung the same air and the same burthen, he appeared 
to lose all hesitation, and went straight to him. 

“ Well, captain,’' said the man in the cloak, “ did you see 
them ?” 

“ As plainly as I see you, colonel, — a musketeer and two 
light horse; but I could not recognise them. However, as 
tlie musketeer hid his face in his handkerchief, I presume it 
was the regent.” 

“Himself; and the two light horse are Simiane and 
Ravanne.” 

“ Ah, ah ! my scholar,” said the captain, “ I shall have 
great pleasure in seeing him again : he is a good boy.” 

“ At any rate, captain, take care he does not recognise 
you.” 

“ Recognise me ! It must be the devil himself to recognise 
me, accoutred as I am. It is you, rather, chevalier, who 
s’ ould take the caution. You have an unfortunately aristo- 
cratic air, which does not suit at all with your dress. How- 
ever, there they are in the trap, and we must take care they 
do not leave it. Have our people been told ?” 

“ Your people, captain. I know no more of them than 
they do of me. I quitted the group singing the burthen 
which was our signal. Did they hear me? Did they 
understand me ? I know nothing of it.” 

“ Be easy, colonel. These fellows hear half a voice, and 
understand half a word.” 

Indeed, as soon as the man in the cloak had left the group, 
a strange fluctuation which he had not foreseen began to take 
place in the crowd, which appeared to be composed only of 
passers-by, so that the song was not finished, nor the collec- 
tion received. The crowd dispersed. A great many men 


II2 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


left the circle, singly, or two and two, turning towards each 
other with an imperceptible gesture of the hand, some by the 
Rue de Valois, some by the Cour des Fontaines, some by 
the Palais Royal itself, thus surrounding the Rue des Bons 
Enfants, which seemed to be the centre of the rendezvous. 
In consequence of this manœuvre, the intention of which it 
is easy to understand, there only remained before the singer 
ten or twelve women, some children, and a good bourgeois 
of about forty years old, who, seeing that the collection was 
about to begin again, quitted his place with an air of pro- 
found contempt for all these new songs, and humming an 
old pastoral which he placed infinitely above them. It seemed 
to him that several men as he passed them made him signs ; 
but as he did not belong to any secret society or any masonic 
lodge, he went on, singing his favourite — 

“ Then let me go, 

And let me play 
Beneath the hazel-tree,** 

and after having followed the Rue St. Honoré to the Bar- 
rière des Deux Sergents, turned the corner and disappeared. 
Almost at the same moment, the man in the cloak, who had 
been the first to leave the group, reappeared, and, accosting 
the singer, — 

“ My friend,” said he, ‘‘my wife is ill, and your music will 
prevent her sleeping. If you have no particular reason for 
remaining here, go to the Place du Palais Royal, and here is 
a crown to indemnify you.” 

‘‘ Thank you, my lord,” replied the singer, measuring the 
social position of the giver by his generosity. “ I will go 
directly. Have you any commissions for the Rue Mouffetard?’* 

“ No.” 

“ Because I would have executed them into the bargain.’* 

The man went away, and as he was at once the centre and 
the cause of the meeting, all that remained disappeared with 
him. At this moment the clock of the Palais Royal struck 
nine. The young man drew from his pocket a watch, whose 
diamond setting contrasted strangely with his simple costume. 
He set it exactly, then turned and went into the Rue des 
Bons Enfants. On arriving opposite No. 24, he found the 
coalheaver. 


THE RUE DES BONS ENFANTS 


Ï13 

* And the singer ?” asked the latter. 

“ He is gone.” 

“Good.” 

“ And the postchaise ?” asked the man in the cloak. 

“ It is waiting at the corner of the Rue Baillif.” 

“ Have they taken the precaution of wrapping the wheels ^ 
and horses’ hoofs in rags ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Very good. Now let us wait,” said the man in the cloak.' 

“ Let us wait,” replied the ccalheaver. And all was silent. 

An hour passed, during which a few rare passers-by crossed 
the street at intervals, but at length it became almost de- 
serted. The few lighted windows were darkened one after 
the other, and night, having now nothing to contend with but 
the two lanthorns, one of which was opposite the chapel of 
St. Clare, and the other at the corner of the Rue Baillif, at 
length reigned over the domain which it had long claimed. 
Another hour passed. They heard the watch in the Rue de 
Valois ; behind him, the keeper of the passage came to close 
the door. 

“ Good,” murmured the man in the cloak \ “ now we are 
sure not to be interrupted.” 

“Provided,” replied the coalheaver, “he leaves before 
day.” 

“ If he were alone, w^e might fear his remaining, but Ma- 
dame de Sabran wdll scarcely keep all three.” 

“ Peste ! you are right, captain ; and I had not thought of 
it ; however, are all your precautions taken ?” 

“All.” . • . . 

“ And your men believe that it is a question of a bet ?” 

“ They appear to believe it, at least, and we cannot ask 
more.” 

“ Then it is wtII understood, captain. You and your 
people are drunk. You push me. I fall between the regent 
and him who has his arm. I separate them. You seize on 
him and gag him, and at a wListle the carriage arrives, while 
Simiane and Ravanne are held wdth pistols at their throats.” 

“ But,” answered the coalheaver, in a low voice, “ if he 
declares his name.” 

The man in the cloak replied, in a still lower tone, “ Ie 

8 


114 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


conspiracies there are no half measures. If he declares him- 
self, you must kill him.” 

“ Peste !” said the coalheaver ; “ let us try to prevent his 
doing so.” 

There was no reply, and all was again silent. A quarter of 
an hour passed, and then the centre windows were lighted up. 

“ Ah ! ah ! there is something new,” they both exclaimed 
together. 

At this moment they heard the step of a man, who came 
from the Rue St Honoré, and who was preparing to go the 
whole length of the street 

The coalheaver muttered a terrible oath ; however, the man 
came on, but whether the darkness sufficed to frighten him, 
or whether he saw something suspicious moving there, it was 
evident that he experienced some fear. As he reached the 
Hôtel St Clare, employing that old ruse of cowards who 
wish to appear brave, he began to sing ; but as he advanced, 
his voice trembled, and though the innocence of the song 
proved the serenity of his heart, on arriving opposite the pas- 
sage he began to cough, which, as we know, in the gamut of 
terror, indicates a greater degree of fear than singing. Seeing, 
however, that nothing moved round him, he took courage, 
and, in a voice more in harmony with his present situation 
than with the sense of the words, he began, — 

“Then let me go,* 

but there he stopped short, not only in his song, but in his 
walk ; for, having perceived two men standing in a doorway, 
he felt his voice and his legs fail him at once, and he drew 
up, motionless and silent Unfortunately, at this moment a 
shadow approached the window. The coalheaver saw that a 
cry might lose all, and moved, as if to spring on the passen- 
ger; his companion held him back. 

“ Captain,” said he, “ do not hurt this man and then, 
approaching him — “ Pass on, my friend,” said he, “ but pass 
quickly, and do not look back.” 

The singer did not wait to be told twice, but made off as 
fast as his little legs and his trembling condition allowed, so 
that in a few minutes he had disappeared at the corner of 
the Hôtel de Toulouse. 


THE RUE DES BONS ENFANTS, 


*15 


** Twas time,” murmured the coalheaver ; “ they are open 
Ing the window ” 

The two men drew back as far as possible into the shade. 
The window was opened, and one of the light horse appeared 
on the balcony. 

‘ Well ?” said a voice, which the coalheaver and his com- 
panion recognised as that of the regent, from the interior oi 
the room. “ Well, Simiane, what kind of weather is it ?” 

“ Oh !” replied Simiane, “ I think it snows.” 

“ You think it snows ?” 

“ Or rains, I do not know which, continued Simiane. 

“ What 1” said Ravanne, “ can you not tell what is falling?” 
and he also came on to the balcony. 

“ After all,” said Simiane, “ I am not sure that anything is 
falling.” 

“He is dead drunk,” said the regent. 

“ I !” said Simiane, wounded in his amour propre as a 
toper, “ I dead drunk ! Come here, monseigneur, come.” 

Though the invitation was given in a strange manner, the 
regent joined his companions, laughing. By his gait it was 
easy to see that he himself was more than warmed. 

“ Ah ! dead drunk,” replied Simiane, holding out his Hand 
to the prince ; “ well, I bet you a hundred louis that, regent 
of France as you are, you will not do what I do.” 

“ You hear, monseigneur,” said a female voice from the 
room ; “it is a challenge.” 

“ And as such I accept it.” 

“ Done, for a hundred louis.” 

“ I go halves with whoever likes,” said Ravanne. 

“ Bet with the marchioness,” said Simiane ; “ I admit no 
one into my game.” 

“ Nor I,” said the regent. 

“ Marchioness,” cried Ravanne, “fifty louis to a kiss.” 

“Ask Philippe if he permits it.” 

“ Yes,” said the regent, “ it is a golden bargain ; you are 
sure to win. Well, are you ready, Simiane ?” 

“ I am ; will you follow me ?” 

“ Everywhere.” 

“ What are you going to do ?” 

“ Look.” 


8— a 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


Il6 

" Where the devil are you going ?” 

“ I am going into the Palais Royal.” 

‘‘ How ?” 

“ By the roofs.” 

And Simiane, seizing that kind of iron fan which we have 
said separated the windows of the drawing room from those 
of the bedrooms, began to climb like an ape. 

“ Monseigneur,” cried Madame de Sabran, bounding on 
to the balcony^ and catching the prince by the arm, “ I hope 
you will not follow.” 

“Not follow!” said the regent, freeing himself from the 
marchioness’ arm ; “ do you know that I hold as a principle 
that whatever another man tries I can do ? If he goes up to 
the moon, devil take me if am not there to knock at the door 
as soon as he. Did you bet on me, Ravanne ?” 

“ Yes, my prince,” replied the young man, laughing. 

“ Then take your kiss, you have won and the regent 
seized the iron bars, climbing behind Simiane, who, active, 
tall, and slender, was in an instant on the terrace. 

“ But I hope you, at least, will remain, Ravanne ?” said 
the marchioness. 

“ Long enough to claim your stakes,” said the young man, 
kissing the beautiful fresh cheeks of Madame de Sabran. 
“ Now, adieu,” continued he, “ I am monseigneur’s page ; 
you understand that I must follow him.” 

And Ravanne darted on to the perilous road already taken 
by his companions. The coalheaver and the man in the 
cloak uttered an exclamation of astonishment, which was 
repeated along the street as if every door had an echo. 

“ Ah ! what is that ?” said Simiane, who had arrived first 
on the terrace. 

“ Do you see double, drunkard ?” said the regent, seizing 
the railing of the terrace, “ it is the watch, and you will get 
us taken to the guard-house ; but I promise you I will leave 
you there.” 

At these words those who were in the street were silent, 
hoping that the duke and his companions would push the 
joke no further, but would come down and go out by the 
prdinary road. 

“ Oh ! here I am,” said the regent, landing on the terrace ; 
“ have you had enough, Simiane ?” 


THE RUE DES BONS ENFANTS, I17 

‘^No, monseigneur,” replied Simiane; and bending down 
to Ravanne, “ that is not the watch,” continued he, “ not a 
musket — not a jerkin.” 

“ What is the matter ?” asked the regent. 

' “ Nothing,” replied Simiane, making a sign to Ravanne, 

except that I continue my ascent, and invite you to follow 
me.” 

And at these words, holding out his hand to the regent, he 
began to scale the roof, drawing him after him. Ravanne 
brought up the rear. 

At this sight, as there was no longer any doubt of their 
intention, the coalheaver uttered a malediction, and the man 
in the cloak a cry of rage. 

“ Ah ! ah !” said the regent, striding on the roof, and look- 
ing down the street, where, by the light from the open window, 
they saw eight or ten men moving, “ what the devil is that ? 
a plot ! Ah I one would suppose they wanted to scale the 
house — they are furious. I have a mind to ask them what 
we can do to help them.” 

“ No joking, monseigneur,” said Simiane ; ‘Met us go oa” 

“ Turn by the Rue St. Honoré,” said the man in the cloak. 
“Forward, forward.” 

“ They are pursuing us,” said Simiane ; “ quick to the 
other side ; back.” 

“ I do not know what prevents me,” said the man in the 
cloak, drawing a pistol from his belt and aiming at the regent, 
“ from bringing him down like a partridge.” 

“ Thousand furies !” cried the coalheaver, stopping him, 
“ you will get us all hung and quartered.” 

“ But what are we to do?” 

“ Wait till they come down alone and break their necks, 
for if Providence is just, that little surprise awaits us.” 

“What an idea, Roquefinette !” 

“ Eh ! colonel ; no names, if you please.” 

“ You are right. Pardieu !” 

“ There is no need ; let us have the idea.” 

“ Follow me,” cried the man in the cloak, springing into 
the passage. “ Let us break open the door and we will take 
them on the other side when they jump down.” 

And all that remained of his companions followed him. 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


îi8 

The others, to the number of five or six, were already making 
for the Rue St. Honoré. 

Let us go, monseigneur,” said Simiane ; “ we have not a 
minute to lose ; slide on your back. It is not glorious, but 
it is safe.” 

“ I think I hear them in the passage,” said the regent ; 
“ what do you think, Ravanne ?” 

“ I do not think at all,” said Ravanne, “ I let myself slip. 

And all three descended rapidly, and arrived on the terrace. 

“ Here, here !” said a woman’s voice, at the moment when 
Simiane strode over the parapet to descend his iron ladder. 

“ Ah ! is it you, marchioness ?” said the regent ; “ you are 
indeed a friend in need.” 

“Jump in here, and quickly.” 

The three fugitives sprang into the room. 

“ Do you like to stop here ?” asked Madame de Sabran. 

“Yes,” said Ravanne; “ I will go and look for Canillac 
and his night-watch.” 

“No, no,” said the regent; “they will be scaling your house 
and treating it as a town taken by assault Let us gain the 
Palais Royal.” 

And they descended the staircase rapidly and opened the 
garden door. There they heard the despairing blows of 
their pursuers against the iron gates. 

“Strike, strike, my friends,” said the regent, running with 
the carelessness and activity of a young man, “ the gate is 
solid, and will give you plenty of work.” 

“ Quick, quick, monseigneur,” cried Simiane, who, thanks 
to his great height, had jumped to the ground hanging by his 
arms, “ there they are at the end of the Rue de Valois. Put 
your foot on my shoulder — now the other — and let yourself 
slip into my arms. You are saved, thank God.” 

“ Draw your sword, Ravanne, and let us charge these feL 
lows,” said the regent. 

“ In the name of Heaven, monseigneur,” cried Simiane, 
“ follow us. I am not a coward, I believe, but what you 
would do is mere folly. Here, Ravanne.” 

And the young men, each taking one of the duke’s arms, 
led him down a passage of the Palais Royal at the moment 
when those who were running by the Rue de Valois were at 


THE RUE DES BONS ENFANTS, lig 

twenty paces from them, and when the door of the passage 
fell under the efforts of the second troop. The whole re- 
united band rushed against the gate at the moment that the 
three gentlemen closed it behind them. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the regent, saluting with his hand, for 
33 to his hat, heaven knows where that was ; “ I hope, for 
the sake of your heads, that all this was only a joke, for you 
are attacking those who are stronger than yourselves. Be- 
ware, to-morrow, of the lieutenant of police. Meanwhile, 
good night” 

And a triple shout of laughter petrified the two conspi- 
rators leaning against the gate at the head of their breathless 
companions. 

‘‘This man must have a compact with Satan,” cried 
D’Harmental. 

“ We have lost the bet, my friends,” said Roquefinette, 
addressing his men, who stood waiting for orders, “ but we 
do not dismiss you yet ; it is only postponed. As to the 
promised sum, you have already had half : to-morrow — you 
knpw where, for the rest. Good evening. I shall be at the 
rendezvous to-morrow.” 

All the people dispersed, and the two chiefs remained 
alone. 

“Well, colonel,” said Roquefinette, looking D’tiarmental 
full in the face. 

“ Well, captain,” replied the chevalier ; “ I have a great 
mind to ask one thing of you.” 

“ What ?” asked Roquefinette. 

“ To follow me into some cross-road and blow my brains 
out with your pistol, that this miserable head may be punished 
and not recognised.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Why ? Because in such matters, when one fails one is 
but a fooL What am I to say to Madame de Maine now ?” 

“ What !” cried Roquefinette, “ is it about that little hop- 
o’my-thumb that you are bothering yourself? Pardieu ! you 
are frantically susceptible, colonel. Why the devil does not 
her lame husband attend to his own affairs. I should like 
to have seen your prude with her two cardinals and her 
three or four marquises, who are bursting with fear at this 


120 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


moment in a corner of the arsenal, while we remain masters 
of the field of battle. I should like to have seen if they 
would have chmbed walls like lizards. Stay, colonel, listen 
to an old fox To be a good conspirator, you must have, 
first, what you have, courage ; but you must also have what 
you have not, patience. Morbleu ! if I had such an affair 
in my hands, I would answer for it that I would bring it to a 
good end, and if you like to make it over to me we will talk 
of that” 

“ But in my place,” asked the colonel, “what would you 
say to Madame de Maine ?” 

“ Oh ! I should say, ‘ My princess, the regent must have 
been warned by hits police, for he did not leave as we ex- 
pected, and we saw none but his roué companions.' Then the 
Prince de Cellamare will say to you, ‘ My dear D’Harmental, 
we have no resources but in you.’ Madame de Maine will 
say thatalfis not lost since the brave D’Harmental remains 
to us. The Count de Laval will grasp your hand trying to pay 
you a compliment, which he will not finish, because since his 
jaw is broken his tongue is not active, particularly for com- 
pliments. The Cardinal de Polignac will make the sign of the 
cross. Alberoni will swear enough to shake the heavens, — 
in this manner you will have conciliated everybody, saved 
your amour propre, and may return to hide in your attic, 
which I advise you not to leave for three or four days if you 
do not wish to be hung. From time to time I will pay you a 
visit. You will continue to bestow on me some of the libera- 
lities of Spain, because it is of importance to me to live 
agreeably, and keep up my spirits ; then, at the first oppor- 
tunity we recall our brave fellows, and take our revenge.” 

“ Yes, certainly,” said D’Harmental ; “ that is what any 
other would do, but you see I have some foolish ideas — I 
cannot lie.” 

“Whoever cannot lie cannot act,” replied the captain; 
“ but what do I see there ? The bayonets of the watch ; 
amicable institution, I recognise you there ; always a quarter 
of an hour too late. But now adieu, colonel,” continued he ; 
“ there is your road, we must separate,” said the captain, 
showing the Passage du Palais Royal, “ and here is mine,” 
added he, pointing to the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs î 


THE RUE DES BONS ENFANTS, I2l 

“ go quietly, that they may not know that you ought to run 
as fast as you can, your hand on your hip so, and singing 
‘ La MereGaudichon.’ ” And the captain followed the Rue 
de Valois at the same pace as the watch, who were a hundred 
paces behind him, singing carelessly as he went. 

As to the chevalier, he re-entered the Rue des Bons Enfants, 
now as quiet as it had been noisy ten minutes before ; and at 
the corner of the Rue Baillif he found the carriage, which, 
according to its orders, had not moved, and was waiting with 
the door open, the servant at the step, and the coachman on 
his box. 

“ To the arsenal,” said the chevalier. 

“It is useless,” said a voice which made D^Harmental 
start ; “ I know all that has passed, and I will inform those 
who ought to know. A visit at this hour would be dangerous 
for all.” 

“Is it you, abbé?” said D’Harmental, trying to recognise 
Brigaud in the livery in which he was disguised ; “ you would 
render me a real service in taking the news instead of me, 
for on my honour I do not know what to say.” 

“ Well, I shall say,” said Brigaud, “ that you are a brave 
and loyal gentleman, and that if there were ten like you in 
France, all would soon be finished ; but we are not here 
to pay compliments : get in quickly — v;here shall I take 
you ?” 

“ It is useless,” said D’Harmental ; “ I will go on foot.” 

“Get in. It is safer.” 

D’Harmental complied, and Brigaud, dressed as he was, 
came and sat beside him. 

“ To the corner of the Rue du Gros Chenet and the Rue 
de Cléry,” said the abbé. 

The coachman, impatient at having waited so long, obeyed 
quickly. At the place indicated the carriage stopped ; the 
chevalier got out, and soon disappeared round the corner of 
the Rue du Temps-Perdu. As to the carriage, it rolled on 
noiselessly towards the Boulevards, like a fairy car which does 
not touch the earth. 


122 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


CHAPTER XV. 

JEAN BUVAT. 

Our readers must now make a better acquaintance with one 
of the principal personages in the history which we have 
undertaken to relate, of whom we have scarcely spoken. We 
would refer to the good bourgeois, whom we have seen 
quitting the group in the Rue de Valois, and making for the 
Barrière des Sergents at the moment when the street-singer 
began his collection, and who, it will be remembered, we 
have since seen at so inopportune a moment in the Rue des 
Bons Enfants. 

Heaven preserve us from questioning the intelligence of 
our readers, so as to doubt for a moment that they had recog- 
nised in the poor devil to whom the Chevalier d'Harmental 
had rendered such timely assistance the good man of the 
terrace in the Rue du Temps-Perdu. But they cannot 
know, amless we tell them in detail, what he was physically, 
morally, and socially. If the reader has not forgotten the 
little we have already told him, it will be remembered that 
he was from forty to forty-five years of age. Now as every 
one knows, after forty years of age the bourgeois of Paris 
entirely forgets the care of his person, with which he is not 
generally much occupied, a negligence from which his cor- 
poreal graces suffer considerably, particularly when, as in the 
present instance, his appearance is not to be admired. 

Our bourgeois was a little man of five feet four, short and 
fat, disposed to become obese as he advanced in age ; and 
with one of those placid faces where all — hair, eyebrow's, 
eyes, and skin — seem of the same colour ; in fact, one of those 
faces of which, at ten paces, one does not distinguish a 
feature. The most enthusiastic physiognomist, if he had 
sought to read on this countenance some high and curious 
destiny, would have been stopped in his examination as he 
mounted from his great blue eyes to his depressed forehead, 


JEAN BUVAT, 123 

or descended from his half-open mouth to the fold of his 
double chin. There he would have understood that he had 
under his eyes one of those heads to which all fermentation 
is unknown, whose freshness is respected by the passions, 
good or bad, and who turn nothing in the empty corners of 
their brain but the burden of some old nursery song. Let 
us add that Providence, who does nothing by halves, had 
signed the original, of which we have just offered a copy to 
our readers, by the characteristic name of Jean Buvat. 

It is true that the persons who ought to have appreciated 
the profound nullity of spirit, and excellent qualities of heart, 
of this good man, suppressed his patronymic, and ordinarily 
called him Le Bonhomme Buvat. 

From his earliest youth the little Buvat, who had a marked 
repugnance for all other kinds of study, manifested a parti- 
cular inclination for caligraphy : thus he arrived every morn- 
ing at the Collège des Oratoriens, where his mother sent him 
gratis, with his exercises and translations full of faults, but 
written with a neatness, a regularity, and a beauty which it 
was charming to see. The little Buvat was whipped every 
day for the idleness of his mind, and received the writing- 
prize every year for the skill of his hand. At fifteen years of 
age he passed from the Epitome Sacræ, which he had re 
commenced five times, to the Epitome Græcæ ; but the pro- 
fessor soon perceived that this was too much for him, and put 
him back for the sixth time in the Epitome Sacræ. Passive 
as he appeared, young Buvat was not wanting in a certain 
pride. He came home in the evening crying to his mother, 
and complaining of the injustice which had been done him, 
declaring, in his grief, a thing which till then he had been 
careful not to confess, namely, that there were in the school 
children of ten years old more advanced than he was. 

Widow Buvat, who saw her son start every morning with 
his exercises perfectly neat (which led her to believe that 
there could be no fault to be found with them), wænt the next 
day to abuse the good fathers. They replied that her son 
was a good boy, incapable of an evil thought towards God, 
or a bad action towards his neighbour ; but that, at the same 
time, he was so awfully stupid that they advised her to de- 
velope, by making him a writing-master, the only talent with 


124 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


which nature had blessed him. This counsel was a ray of 
light for Madame Buvat; she understood that, in this manner, 
the benefit she should derive from her son would be imme- 
diate. She came back to her house, and communicated to 
her son the new plans she had formed for him. Young 
Buvat saw in this only a means of escaping the castigation 
which he received every morning, for which the prize, bound 
in calf, that he received every year was not a compensation. 

He received the propositions of his mother with great joy; 
promised her that, before six months were over, he would 
be the first writing-master in the capital ; and the same day, 
after having, from his little savings, bought a knife with four 
blades, a packet of quills, and two copy-books, set himself to 
the work. The good Oratoriens were not deceived as to the 
true vocation of young Buvat. Caligraphy was with him an 
art which almost became drawing. At the end of six months, 
like the ape in the Arabian Nights, he wrote six kinds of 
writing ; and imitated men’s faces, trees, and animals. At 
the end of a year he had made such progress that he thought 
he might now give out his prospectus. He worked at it for 
three months, day and night; and almost lost his sight over 
it. At the end of that time he had accomplished a chef- 
d’œuvre. 

It was not a simple writing, but a real picture representing 
the creation of the world, and divided almost like The 
Transfiguration of Raphael In the upper part, consecrated 
to Eden, was the Eternal Father drawing Eve from the side 
of the sleeping Adam, and surrounded by those animals 
which the nobility of their nature brings near to man, such 
as the lion, the horse, and the dog. At the bottom was the 
sea, in the depths of which were to be seen swimming the 
most fantastic fishes, and on the surface a superb three-decked 
vessel On the two sides, trees full of birds put the heavens, ' 
which they touched with their topmost branches, in com- 
munication with the earth, which they grasped with their 
roots ; and in the space left in the middle of all this, in the 
most perfectly horizontal line, and reproduced in six different 
writings, was the adverb “ pitilessly.” This time the artist was 
not deceived ; the picture produced the effect which he ex- 
pected. A week afterwards young Buvat had five male and 


JEAN £ C/FA T. 


125 


two female scholars. His reputation increased ; and Madame 
Buvat, after some time passed in greater ease than she had 
known even in her husband’s lifetime, had the satisfaction 
of dying perfectly secure about her son’s future. 

As to him, after having sufficiently mourned his mother, 
he pursued the course of his life, one day exactly like the 
other. He arrived thus at the age of twenty-six or twenty- 
seven, having passed the stormy part of existence in the 
eternal calm of his innocent and virtuous good nature. It 
was about this time that the good man found an opportunity 
of doing a sublime action, which he did instinctively and 
simply, as he did everything ; but perhaps a man of mind 
might have passed it over without seeing it, or turned away 
from it if he had seen it. There was in the house No. 6, 
in the Rue des Orties, of which Buvat occupied the attic, a 
young couple who were the admiration of the whole quarter 
for the harmony in which they lived. They appeared made 
for each other. The husband was a man of from thirty-four 
to thirty-five years of age, of a southern origin, with black 
eyes, beard, and hair, sunburnt complexion, and teeth like 
pearls. He was called Albert du Rocher, and was the son 
of an ancient Cévenol chief, who had been forced to turn 
catholic, with all his family, at the persecutions of Monsieur 
Bâville ; and half from opposition, half because youth seeks 
youth, he had entered the household of M. le Duc de Chartres, 
which was being reformed just at that time, having suffered 
much in the campaign preceding the battle of Steinkirk, 
where the prince had made his début in arms. Du Rocher 
had obtained the place of La Neuville, who had been killed 
in that charge which, conducted by the Due de Chartres, 
had decided the victory. 

The winter had interrupted the campaign, but in the spring 
M. de Luxembourg had recalled all those officers who shared 
their life between w^ar and pleasure. The Due de Chartres, 
always eager to draw a sword which the jealousy of Louis 
XIV. had so often replaced in the scabbard, was one of the 
first to answ’er this appeal. Du Rocher followed him with 
all his military household. The great day of Neiwinden 
arrived. The Due de Chartres had, as usual, the command 
of the guards ; as usual be charged at their head, but so 


12 $ 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


furiously that five times he found himself almost alone in the 
midst of the enemy. At the fifth time he had near him 
only a young man whom he scarcely knew : but in the rapid 
glance which he cast on him he recognised one of those 
spirits on whom one may rely, and instead of yielding, as a 
brigadier of the enemy’s army, who had recognised him, pro- 
posed to him, he blew the proposer’s brains out with his 
pistol. At the same instant two shots were fired, one of 
which took off the prince’s hat, and the other turned from 
the handle of his sword. Scarcely had these two shots been 
fired when those who had discharged them fell simulta- 
neously, thrown down by the prince’s companion — one by a 
sabre-stroke, the other by a bullet A general attack took 
place on these two men, who were miraculously saved from 
any ball. The prince’s horse, however, fell under him. The 
young man who was with him jumped from his, and offered 
it to him. 

The prince hesitated to accept this service, which might 
cost him who rendered it so dear ; but the young man, who 
was tall and powerful, thinking that this was not a moment to 
exchange politenesses, took the prince in his arms and forced 
him into the saddle. At this moment, M. d’Arcy, who had 
lost his pupil in the mêlée, and who was seeking for him with 
a detachment of light horse, came up, just as, in spite of 
their courage, the prince and his companion were about to 
be killed or taken. Both were without wound, although the 
prince had received four bullets in his clothes. The Due de 
Chartres held out his hand to his companion, and asked him 
his name ; for, although his face was known to him, he had 
been so short a time in his service that he did not remember 
his name. The young man replied that he was called Albert 
du Rocher, and that he had taken the place of La Neuville, 
who was killed at Steinkirk. 

Then, turning towards those who had just arrived, — 

“ Gentlemen,” said the prince, “ you have prevented me 
from being taken, but this gentleman,” pointing to Du 
Rocher, “has saved me from being killed.” 

At the end of the campaign, the Due de Chartres named 
Du Rocher his first equerry, and, three years afterwards, 
having retained the grateful affection which he had vowed to 


JEAN BUVA1\ 12 } 

him, lie married him to a young person whom he loved, and 
gave her a dowry. 

As M. le Duc de Chartres was still but a young man, this 
dowry was not large, but he promised to take charge of the 
advancement of his protégée. This young person was of 
English origin ; her mother had accompanied Madame Hen- 
riette when she came to France to marry monsieur ; and after 
that princess had been poisoned by the Chevalier d’Effiat, 
she had passed, as lady-in-waiting, into the service of the 
Grand Dauphine ; but, in 1690, the Grand Dauphine died, 
and the Englishwoman, in her insular pride, refused to stay 
w’ith Mademoiselle Choin, and retired to a little country 
house which she hired near St. Cloud, where she gave her- 
self up entirely to the education of her little Clarice. It was 
in the journeys of the Due de Chartres to St. Cloud that Du 
Rocher made acquaintance with this young girl, whom, as 
we have said, he married in 1697. It was, then, these young 
people who occupied the first floor of the house of which 
Buvat had the attic. The young couple had first a son, 
whose caligraphic education was confided to Buvat from the 
age of four years. The young pupil was making the most 
satisfactory progress when he was carried off by the measles. 
The despair of the parents was great ; Buvat shared it, the 
more sincerely that his pupil had shown such aptitude. This 
sympathy for their grief, on the part of a stra-'ger, attached 
them to him ; and one day, when the young man was com- 
plaining of the precarious future of artists, Albert du Rocher 
proposed to him to use his influence to procure him a place 
at the government library. Buvat jumped with joy at the 
idea of becoming a public functionary ; and, a month after- 
wards, Buvat received his brevet as employé at the library, 
in the manuscript department, with a salary of nine hundred 
livres a years. From this day, Buvat, in the piide natural to 
his new position, neglected his scholars, and gave himself up 
entirely to the preparation of forms. Nine hundred livres, 
secured to the end of his life, was quite a fortune, and the 
worthy writer, thanks to the royal munificence, began to lead 
a life of ease and comfort, promising his goed neighbours 
that if they had a second child no one but himself should 
teach him to write. On their parts, the poor parents wished 


I2S 


THE COySPIEATOES. 


much to give this increase of occupation to the worthy writer. 
God heard their desire. Towards the termination of 1702, 
Clarice was delivered of a daughter. 

Great was the joy through the whole house. Buvat did 
not feel at all at his ease ; he ran up and down stairs, beating 
his thighs with his hands, and singing below his breath the 
burthen of his favourite song, “ Then let me go, and let me 
play,” etc. That day, for the first time since he had been 
appointed, that is to say, during two years, he arrived at his 
office at a quarter past ten, instead of ten o’clock exactly. 
A supernumerary, who thought that he must be dead, had 
asked for his place. 

The little Bathilde w^s not a week old before Buvat wished 
to begin teaching her her strokes and pot-hooks, saying, that 
to learn a thing well, it is necessary to commence young. It 
was with the greatest difficulty that he was made to under- 
stand that he must wait till she was two or three years old. 
He resigned himself ; but, in expectation of that time, he set 
about preparing copies. At the end of three years Clarice 
kept her word, and Buvat had the satisfaction of solemnly 
putting her first; pen into the hands of Bathilde. 

It was the beginning of the year 1707, and the Due de 
Chartres had become Dued’Orleans, by the death of Monsieur, 
and had at last obtained a command in Spain, where he was 
to conduct the troops to the Maréchal de Berwick. Orders 
were directly given to all his military household to hold 
themselves in readiness for the 5th of March. As first 
equerry, it was necessary that Albert should accompany the 
prince. This news, which would have formerly given him 
the highest joy, made him now almost sad, for the health of 
Clarice began to fill him with the greatest uneasiness ; and 
the doctor had allowed the word consumption to escape him. 
Whether Clarice felt herself seriously attacked, or whether, 
more natural still, she feared only for her husband, her burst 
of grief was so wild that Albert himself could not help crying 
with her, and little Bathilde and Buvat cried because they 
saw the others cry. 

The 5th of March arrived ; it was the day fixed for the 
departure. In spite of her grief, Clarice had busied herself 
with her husband’s outfit, and had wished that it was worthy 


JEAN BUVAT, 129 

of the prince wliom he accompanied. Moreover, in the midst 
of her tears a ray of proud joy lit up her face when she saw 
Albert in his elegant uniform, and on his noble war-horse. 
As to Albert, he was full of hope and pride ; the poor wife 
smiled sadly at his dreams for the future ; but in order not 
to dispirit him at this moment, she shut her grief up in her 
own heart, and silencing her fears which she had for him, 
and, perhaps, also those w’hich she experienced for herself, 
she was the first to say to him, “Think not of me, but of your 
honour.” 

The Due d’Orleans and his corps d’armée entered Cata- 
lonia in the first days of April, and advanced directly, by 
forced marches, across Arragon. On arriving at Segorbe, 
the duke learnt that the Maréchal de Berwick held himself 
in readiness for a decisive battle ; and in his eagerness tc 
arrive in time to take part in the action, he sent Albert on at 
full speed, charging him to tell the marshal that the Due 
d’Orleans was coming to his aid with ten thousand men, and 
to pray that if it did not interfere with his arrangements, he 
would wait for him before joining battle. 

Albert left, but bewildered in the mountains, and misled 
by ignorant guides, he was only a day before the army, and 
he arrived at the marshal’s camp at the very moment w'hen 
the engagement was going to commence. Albert asked where 
the marshal was ; they showed his position, on the left of 
the army, on a little hill, from which he overlooked the whole 
plain. The Due de Berwick was there surrounded by his 
staff ; Albert put his horse to the gallop, and made straight 
towards him. 

The messenger introduced himself to the marshal and 
told him the cause of his coming. The marshal’s only answei 
was to point to the field of battle, and tell him to return to 
the prince, and inform him what he had seen. But Albert 
had smelt powder, and w^as not willing to leave thus. He 
asked permission to wait till he could at least give him the 
news of a victory. At that moment a charge of dragoons 
seemed necessary to the marshal ; he told one of his aides- 
de-camp to carry the order to charge to the colonel. The 
young man started at a gallop, but he had scarcely gone a 
third of the distance v'hich separated the hill from the position 

9 


ItiE LÜ^SFlRATOkS, 


130 

of the regiment, when his head was carried off by a cannon, 
ball. Scarcely had he fallen from his stirrups when Albert, 
seizing this occasion to take part in the battle, set spurs to 
his horse, transmitted the order to the colonel, and instead 
of returning to the marshal, drew his sword, and charged at 
the head of the regiment. 

This charge was one of the most brilliant of the day, and 
penetrated so completely to the heart of the imperial guard, 
that they began to give way. The marshal had involuntarily 
watched the young officer throughout the mêlée, recognising 
him by his uniform. He saw him arrive at the enemy’s 
standard, engage in a personal contest with him who carried 
it ; then, when the regiment had taken flight, he saw him 
returning with his conquest in his arms. On reaching the 
marshal he threw the colours at his feet ; opening his 
mouth to speak, instead of words, it was blood that came to 
his lips. The marshal saw him totter in his saddle, and 
advanced to support him, but before he had time to do so 
Albert had fallen ; a ball had pierced his breast. The marshal 
sprung from his horse, but the brave young man lay dead on 
the standard he had just taken. The Due d’Orleans arrived 
the day after the battle. He regretted Albert as one regrets 
a gallant gentleman ; but, after all, he had died the death of 
the brave, in the midst of victory, and on the colours he 
himself had taken. What more could be desired by a French- 
man, a soldier, and a gentleman ? 

The duke wrote with his own hand to the poor widow. If 
anything could console a wife for the death of her husband, 
it would doubtless be such a letter ; but poor Clarice thought 
but of one thing, that she had no longer a husband, and that 
lier child had no longer a father. At four o’clock Buvat 
came in from the library ; they told him that Clarice wanted 
him, and he went down directly. The poor woman did not 
cry, she did not complain ; she stood tearless and speechless, 
her eyes fixed and hollow as those of a maniac. When 
Buvat entered, she did not even turn her head towards him, 
but merely holding out her hand, she presented him the 
letter. Buvat looked right and left to endeavour to find out 
what was the matter, but seeing nothing to direct his conjecr 
tures, he looked at the paper and read aloud ; 


/ÆAN BU VAT, 


13X 

“ Madame,— 

“ Your husband has died for France and for me. 
Neither France nor I can give you back your husband, but 
remember that if ever you are in want of anything, are 
both your debtors. 

“Your affectionate, 

“ Philippe d’Orleans.” 

“ What !” cried Buvat, fixing his great eyes on Clarice, 
“ M. du Rocher — it is not possible !” 

“ Papa is dead,” said little Bathilde, leaving the corner 
where she was playing with her doll, and running to her 
mother ; “ is it true that papa is dead ?” 

“ Alas ! yes, my dear child !” said Clarice, finding at once > 
words and tears. “ Oh yes, it is true ; it is but too true, 
unhappy that we are !” 

Madame,” said Buvat, who had been seeking for some 
consolation to offer, “you must not grieve thus; perhaps it 
is a false report.” 

“ Do you not see that the letter is from the Due d’Orleans 
himself?” cried the poor widow. “ Yes, my child, your father 
is dead. Weep, my child ; perhaps in seeing your tears God 
will have pity on me ;” and saying these things, the poor 
widow coughed so painfully that Buvat felt his own breast 
torn by it, but his fright was still greater when he saw that 
the handkerchief which she drew from her mouth was covered 
with blood. Then he understood that a greater misfortune 
threatened Bathilde than that which had just befallen her. 

The apartments which Clarice occupied were now too large 
for her. No one was astonished when she left them for 
smaller ones on the second floor. Besides her grief, which 
annihilated all her other faculties, Clarice felt, in common 
with all other noble hearts, a certain unwillingness to ask, 
even from her country, a reward for the blood which had 
been spilt for it, particularly when that blood is still warm, 
as was that of Albert. The poor widow hesitated to present 
herself to the minister-at-war to ask for her due. At the end 
of three months, when she took courage to make the first 
steps, the taking of Requena and that of Saragossa had already 
thrown into the shade the battle of Almanza Clarice showed 

Q— 2 


132 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


the prince’s letter. The secretary replied that with such a 
letter she could not fail in obtaining what she wanted, but 
that she must wait for his highness’ return. Clarice looked 
in a glass at her emaciated face, and smiled sadly. 

“ Wait !” said she ; “ yes, it would be better, but God 
knows if I shall have the time.” 

The result of this repulse was, that Clarice left her lodging 
on the second floor for two little rooms on the third. The 
poor widow had no other fortune than her husband’s savings. 
The little dowry which the duke had given her had disap- 
peared in the purchase of furniture and her husband’s outflt 
As the new lodging which she took was much smaller than 
the other, no one was astonished that Clarice sold part of her 
furniture. 

The return of the Due d’Orleans was expected in the 
autumn, and Clarice counted on this to ameliorate her situa- 
tion ; but, contrary to the usual custom, the army, instead of 
taking winter quarters, continued the campaign, and news 
arrived that, instead of returning, the duke was about to lay 
siege to Lerida. Now, in 1647, the great Condé himself had 
failed before Lerida, and the new siege, even supposing that 
it ever came to a successful issue, threatened to be of a 
terrible length. 

Clarice risked some new advances. This time they had 
forgotten even her husband’s name. She had again recourse 
to the prince’s letter, which had its ordinary effect ; but they 
told her that after the siege of Lerida the duke could not 
fail to return, and the poor widow was again obliged to 
wait. 

She left her two rooms for a little attic opposite that of 
Buvat, and she sold the rest of her furniture, only keeping 
a table, some chairs, Bathilde’s little cot, and a bed for 
herself. 

Buvat had seen, without taking much notice, these frequent 
removals, but it was not very difficult to understand his neigh- 
bour’s situation. Buvat, who was a careful man, had some 
savings which he had a great wish to put at his neighbour’s 
service ; but Clarice’s pride increased wi.th her poverty, and 
poor Buvat had never yet dared to make the offer. Twenty 
times he had gone to her with a little rouleau, which con- 


133 


/EAJV JS U FA T. 

tained his whole fortune of fifty or sixty louis, but every time 
he left without having dared to take it out of his pocket ; 
but one day it happened that Buvat, descending to go to 
business, having met the landlord who was making his 
quarterly round, and guessing that his neighbour might be 
embarrassed, even for so small a sum, took the proprietor into 
his own room, saying that the day before Madame du Rocher 
had given him the money, that he might get both receipts 
at once. The landlord, who had feared a delay on the part 
of his tenant, did not care from whence the money came, 
and wrillingly gave the tw’o receipts. 

Buvat, in the naïveté of his soul, was tormented by this 
good action as by a crime. He was three or four days with- 
out daring to present himself to his neighbour, so that when 
he returned, he found her quite affected by what she thought 
an act of indifference on his part. Buvat found Clarice so 
much changed during these few days, that he left her wiping 
his eyes, and for the first time he went to bed without 
having sung, during the fifteen turns he generally took in his 
bed-room, — 

‘Then let me go,” etc. 

which was a proof of melancholy pre-occupation. 

The last days of winter passed, and brought, In passing, 
the news that Lerida had surrendered, and that the young 
and indefatigable general w’as about to besiege Tortosa. 
This was the last blow for poor Clarice. She understood 
that spring was coming, and with it a new campaign, which 
would retain the duke with the army. Strength failed her, 
and she was obliged to take to her bed. 

The position of Clarice was frightful. She did not deceive 
herself as to her illness. She felt that it was mortal, and she 
had no one in the world to whom she could recommend her 
child. The poor woman feared death, not on her own 
account, but on her daughter’s, who w’ould not have even 
the stone of her mothers tomb to rest her head on, for the 
unfortunate have no tomb. Her husband had only distant 
relations, from whom she could not solicit aid ; as to her 
own family, born in France, where her mother died, she had 
not even known them ; besides, she understood that if there 


134 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


were any hope from that quarter, there was no longer the 
time to seek it. Death was approaching. 

One night Buvat, who the evening before had left Clarice 
devoured by fever, heard her groaning so deeply, that he 
jumped from his bed and dressed himself to go and offer 
her help; but on arriving at the door, he did not dare to 
enter or to knock — Clarice was sobbing and praying aloud. 
At this moment Bathilde woke and called her mother. 
Clarice drove back her tears, took her child from the cradle, 
and placing her on her knees on her own bed, made her 
repeat what prayers she knew, and between each of them 
Buvat heard her cry in a sad voice, — 

“ Oh, my God ! listen to my poor child !” 

There was in this nocturnal scene — the child scarcely out 
of the cradle, and a mother half way to the grave, both 
addressing the Lord as their only support in the silence of 
night — something so deeply sad that good Buvat fell on his 
knees, and inwardly swore, what he had not dared to offer 
aloud, that though Bathilde might be an orphan, yet she 
should not be abandoned. God had heard the double prayers 
which had ascended to Him, and he had granted them. 

The next day Buvat did what he had never dared to do 
before. He took Bathilde in his arms, leant his goodnatured 
round face against the charming little face of the child, and 
said softly, — 

“ Be easy, poor little innocent, there are yet good people 
on the earth.” 

The little girl threw her arms round his neck and kissed 
him. Buvat felt that the tears stood in his eyes, and as he 
had often heard that you must not cry before sick people, for 
fear of agitating them, he drew out his watch, and assuming 
a gruff voice to conceal his emotion, — 

“ Hum, it is a quarter to ten, I must go. Good day, 
Madame du Rocher.” 

On the staircase he met the doctor, and asked him what 
he thought of the patient. As he w^as a doctor who came 
through charity, and did not consider himself at all bound 
to be considerate when he was not paid, he replied that in 
three days she would be dead. 

Coming back at four o’clock, Buvat found the whole 


JEAN BUVAT, 135 

house in commotion. The doctor had said that they must 
send for the viaticum. They had sent for the curé, and he 
had arrived, and, preceded by the sacristan and his little 
bell, he had without any preparation entered the sick rocm. 
Clarice received it with her hands joined, and her eyes turned 
towards heaven ; but the impression produced on her was 
not the less terrible. Buvat heard singing, and thought 
what must have happened. He went up directly, and found 
the landing and the door of the sick room surrounded by all 
the gossips of the neighbourhood, who had, as was the 
custom at that time, followed the holy sacrament. Round 
the bed where the dying woman was extended, already so 
pale and motionless that if it had not been for the two great 
tears that ran down her cheeks she might have been taken 
for a marble statue lying on a tomb, the priests were singing 
the prayers for the dying, and in a corner of the room the 
little Bathilde, whom they had separated from her mother, 
that she might not distract her attention during her last act 
of religion, was seated on the ground, not daring to cry. 
frightened at seeing so many people she did not know, and 
hearing so much she did not understand. 

As soon as she saw Buvat, the child ran to him as the only 
person she knew in this grave assembly. Buvat took her in 
his arms, and knelt with her near the bed of the dying 
woman. At this moment Clarice low'ered her eyes from the 
heavens towards the earth. Without doubt she had been 
addressing a prayer to Heaven to send a protector to her 
daughter. She saw Bathilde in the arms of the only friend 
she had in the world. With the penetrating glance of the 
dying she read this pure and devoted heart, and saw what 
he had not dared to tell her ; and as she sat up in bed she 
held out her hand to him, uttering a cry of gratitude and joy, 
such as the angels only can understand ; and, as if she had 
exhausted her remaining strength in this maternal outburst, 
she sank back fainting on the bed. 

The religious ceremony was finished. The priests retired 
first, then the pious followed ; the indifferent and curious 
remained till the last Among this number w^re several 
women. Buvat asked if there was none amongst them who 
knew a good sick-nurse. One of them presented herself 


136 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


directly, declared, in the midst of a chorus of her companions, 
that she had all the necessary virtues for this honourable 
situation, but that, just on account of these good qualities, she 
was accustomed to be paid a week in advance, as she was 
much sought after in the neighbourhood. Buvat asked the 
price of this week. She replied that to any other it would 
be sixteen livres, but as the poor lady did not seem rich, she 
would be contented with twelve. Buvat, who had just re- 
ceived his month’s pay, took two crowns from his pocket and 
gave them to her without bargaining. He would have given 
double if she had asked it 

Clarice was still fainting. The nurse entered on her duty 
by giving her some vinegar instead of salts. Buvat retired. 
As to Bathilde, she had been told that her mother was 
asleep. The poor child did not know the difference between 
sleep and death, and returned to her corner to play with 
her doll. 

At the end of an hour Buvat returned to ask news of 
Clarice. She had recovered from her fainting, but though 
her eyes were open she did not speak. However, she recog- 
nised him, for as soon as he entered she joined her hands 
as if to pray, and then she appeared to seek for something 
under her bolster. The nurse shook her head, and approach- 
ing the patient ; 

“ Your pillow is very well,” said she, “ you must not dis- 
arrange it” Then turning to Buvat, “ Ah ! these sick people !” 
added she, shrugging her shoulders, “ they are always fancying 
that there is something making them uncomfortable ; it is 
death, only they do not know it” 

Clarice sighed deeply, but remained motionless. The nurse 
approached her, and passed over her lips the feather of a quill 
dipped in a cordial of her own invention, which she had just 
been to fetch at the chemist’s. Buvat could not support this 
spectacle ; he recommended the mother and child to the care 
of the nurse, and left 

The next day Clarice was still worse, for though her eyes 
were open, she did not seem to recognise any one but her 
daughter, who was lying near her on the bed, and whose 
little hand she held. On her part, the child, as if she felt 
that this was the last maternal embrace, remained quiet and 


J£AJV BUVAT. 


137 


silent. On seeing her kind friend she only said, “ Mamma 
sleeps.” 

It appeared to Buvat that Clarice moved as if she heard 
and recognised her child’s voice, but it might have been only 
a nervous trembling. He asked the nurse if the sick woman 
had wanted anything. She shook her head, saying, “ What 
would be the use ? It would be money thrown away. These 
apothecaries make quite enough already.” Buvat w^ould have 
liked to stay with Clarice, for he saw that she had not long 
to live, but he never would have thought of absenting him- 
self for a day from business unless he were dying himself. 
He arrived there, then, as usual, but so sad and melancholy 
that the king did not gain much by his presence. They 
remarked with astonishment that that day Buvat did not wait 
till four o'clock had struck to take off the false blue sleeves 
which he wore to protect his coat ; but that at the first stroke 
of the clock he got up, took his hat, and went out The 
supernumerary, who had already asked for his place, watched 
him as he went, then, when he had closed the door, “ Well !” 
said he. loud enough to be heard by the chief, “ there is one 
who takes it easy.” 

Buvat’s presentiments were confirmed. On arriving at the 
house he asked the porter’s wife how Clarice was. 

“ Ah, God be thanked !” replied she ; “ the poor woman 
is happy; she suffers no more.” 

‘ She is dead !” cried Buvat, with that shudder always 
produced by this terrible word. 

“ About three quarters of an hour ago,” replied she ; and 
she went on darning her stocking, and singing a merry song 
which she had interrupted to reply to Buvat. 

Buvat ascended the steps of the staircase one by one, 
stopping frequently to wipe his forehead ; then, on arriving on 
the landing, where was his room and that of Clarice, he was 
obliged to lean his head against the wall, for he felt his legs 
fail him. He stood silent and hesitating, when he thought 
he heard Bathilde’s voice crying. He remembered the poor 
child, and jiis gave him courage. At the door, however, he 
stopped again ; then he heard the groans of the little girl 
more distinctly. 

“ Mamma !” cried the child, in a little voice broken by sobs, 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


138 

“ will you not wake ? Mamma, why are you so cold ?” Then, 
running to the door, and striking with her hand, “ Come, 
my kind friend, come,” said she ; “lam alone, and I am 
afraid. ” 

Buvat was astonished that they had not removed the child 
from her mother s room ; and the profound pity which the 
poor little creature inspired made him forget the painful feel- 
ing which had stopped him for a moment. He then raised his 
hand to open the door. The door was locked. At this moment 
he heard the porter’s wife calling him. He ran to the stairs, 
and asked her where the key was. 

“ Ah !” replied she, “ how stupid I am ; I forgot to give it 
you as you passed.” 

Buvat ran down as quickly as he could. 

“ And why is the key here ?” he asked. 

* The landlord placed it here after he had taken away the 
furniture,” answered she. 

“ What ! taken away the furniture ?’^ cried Buvat 

;“Of course, he has taken away the furniture. Your 
neighbour was not rich, M. Buvat, and no doubt she owes 
money on all sides. Ah ! the landlord will not stand tricks ; 
the rent first That is but fair. Besides, she does not want 
furniture any more, poor dear 1” 

“ But the nurse, where is she ?” 

“ When she saw that her patient was dead, she went away. 
Her business was finished, but she will come back to shroud 
her for a crown, if you like. It is generally the portress who 
does this : but I cannot ; I am too sensitive.” 

Buvat understood, shuddering at all that had passed. He 
went up quickly. His hand shook so that he could scarcely 
find the lock ; but at length the key turned, and the door 
opened. Clarice was extended on the ^ound on the mattress 
out of her bed, in the middle of the dismantled room. An 
old sheet was thrown over her, and ought to have hidden her 
entirely, but little Bathilde had moved it to seek for her 
mother’s face, which she was kissing when he entered. 

“ Ah, my friend,” cried she, “ wake my mamma, who sleeps 
still. Wake her, I beg 1” And the child ran to Buvat, who 
was watching from the door this pitiable spectacle. Buvat 
took Bathilde back to the corpse. 


JEAN BU VAT. 139 

•* Kiss yoMT mother for the last time, my poor child,’* 
said he. 

The child obeyed. 

“ And now,” said he, “ let her sleep. One day God will 
wake her and he took the child in his arms and carried her 
away. The child made no resistance. She seemed to under- 
stand her weakness and her isolation. 

He put her in his own bed, for they had carried away even 
the child’s cot ; and when she was asleep, he went out to give 
information of the death to the commissary of the quarter, 
and to make arrangements for the funeral. 

When he returned, the portress gave him a paper, which 
the nurse had found in Clarice’s hand. Buvat opened and 
recognised the letter from the Due d’Orleans. This was the 
sole inheritance which the poor mother had left to her 
daughter. 


CHAPTER XVL 

BATHILDE. 

In going to make his declaration to the commissary of the 
quarter and his arrangements for the funeral, Buvat had not 
forgotten to look for a woman who could take care of little 
Bathilde, an office which he could not undertake himself ; 
firstly, because he was entirely ignorant of its duties ; and, 
secondly, because it would be impossible to leave the child 
alone during the six hours he spent daily at the office. For- 
tunately, he knew the very person he wanted ; a woman of 
from thirty-five to thirty-eight years of age, who had been in 
Madame Buvat’s service, and whose good qualities he had 
duly appreciated. It was arranged with Nanette — for this 
was the good woman’s name — that she should live in the 
house, do the cooking, take care of little Bathilde, and have 
fifty livres a-year wages, and her board. This new arrange- 
ment must greatly change all Buvat’s habits, by obliging him 
to have a housekeeper, whereas he had always lived as a 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


bachelor, and taken his meals at an eating-house. He could 
no longer keep his attic, which was now too small for him^ 
and next morning he went in search of a new lodging. He 
found one, Rue JPagevin, as he wished to be near the royal 
library, that he might not have too far to walk in wet weather. 
This lodging contained two rooms, a closet, and a kitchen. 
He took it on the spot, and went to buy the necessary furnb 
ture for Bathilde and Nanette’s rooms ; and the same even- 
ing, after their return from business, they moved to their new 
lodgings. 

The next day, which was Sunday, Clarice was buried ; so 
that Buvat had no need to ask for a day’s leave even for this. 

For the first week or two, Bathilde asked constantly for 
her mamma ; but her friend Buvat had brought her a great 
many pretty playthings to console her, so that she soon be- 
gan to ask for her less frequently ; and as she had been told 
she had gone to join her father, she at length only asked oc- 
casionally when they would both come back. 

Buvat had put Bathilde in the best room ; he kept the 
other for himself, and put Nanette in the little closet. 

This Nanette was a good woman, who cooked passably, and 
knitted and netted splendidly. In spite of • these divers 
talents, Buvat understood that he and Nanette would not 
suffice for the education of a young girl ; and that though she 
might write magnificently, know her five rules, and be able 
to sew and net, she would still know only half of what she 
should. Buvat had looked the obligation he had undertaken 
full in the face. His was one of those happy organisations 
which think with the heart, and he had understood that, 
though she had become his ward, Bathilde remained the 
child of Albert and Clarice. He resolved, then, to give her 
an education conformable, not to her present situation, but to 
the name she bore. 

In arriving at this resolution, Buvat had reasoned, very 
simply, that he owed his place to Albert, and, consequently, 
the income of that place belonged to Bathilde. This is how 
he divided his nine hundred livres a-year : four hundred and 
fifty for music, drawing and dancing masters ; four hundred 
and fifty for Bathilde’s dowry. 

Now, supposing that Bathilde, who was four years old, 


BA rillLDE, 


141 


should marry at eighteen, the interest and the capital together 
would amount to something like nine or ten thousand francs. 
This was not much, he knew, and was much troubled by that 
knowledge ; but it was in vain to think, he could not make it 
more. 

To defray the expense of their living, lodgings and clothing, 
for himself and Bathilde, he would again begin to give writing 
lessons and make copies. For this purpose he got up at five 
o’clock in the morning, and went to bed at ten at night. This 
would be all profit ; for, thanks to this new arrangement, he 
would lengthen his life by two or three hours daily. For 
some time these good resolutions prospered ; neither lessons 
nor copies were wanting; and, as two years passed before 
Bathilde had finished the early education he himself under- 
took to give her, he was able to add nine hundred francs to 
her little treasure. At six years old Bathilde had what the 
daughters of the richest and noblest houses seldom have — 
masters for music, drawing and dancing. Making sacrifices 
for this charming child was entirely pleasure ; for she ap- 
peared to have received from God one of those happy organi- 
sations whose aptitude makes us believe in a former world, 
for they appear not so much to be learning a new thing as to 
be remembering one formerly known. As to her beauty, 
which had given such early promise, it had amply fulfilled it. 

Buvat was happy the whole week, whilst after each lesson 
he received the compliments of the master, and very proud 
on Sundays, when, having put on his salmon-coloured coat, 
his black velvet breeches, and chiné stockings, he took Ba- 
thilde by the hand and went for his weekly walk. 

It was generally towards the Chemin des Porcherons that 
he directed his steps. This was a rendezvous for bowls, and 
Buvat had formerly been a great lover of this game. In 
ceasing to be an actor, he had become a judge. When- 
ever a dispute arose, it was referred to him; and his eye was so 
correct, that he could tell at the first glance, and without fail, 
which ball was nearest the mark. From his judgments there 
was no appeal, and they were received with neither more nor 
less respect than those of St. Louis at Vincennes. But it 
must be said to his credit that his predilection for this walk 
was not entirely egotistical : it also led to the Marsh of the 


142 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


Grange Batelière, whose black and gloomy waters atti acted a 
great" many of those dragon-flies with the gauzy wings and 
golden bodies which children delight to pursue. One of 
Bathilde’s greatest amusements was to run, with her green 
net in her hand, her beautiful fair curls floating in the wind, 
after the butterflies and dragon flies. The result of this was 
that Bathilde had many accidents to her white frock, but, 
provided she was amused, Buvat took very philosophically a 
spot ora tear. This was Nanette’s affair. The good woman 
scolded well on their return, but Buvat closed her mouth by 
shrugging his shoulders and saying, “ Bah ! one can’t put old 
heads on young shoulders.” 

And, as Nanette had a great respect for proverbs, which 
she occasionally used herself, she generally gave way to the 
moral of this one. It happened also sometimes, but this 
was only on fête days, that Buvat complied with Bathilde’s 
request to take her to Montmartre to see the windmills. Then 
they set out earlier. Nanette took dinner with them, which 
was destined to be eaten on the esplanade of the abbey. They 
did not get home till eight o’clock in the evening, but from 
th 3 Cross des Porcherons Bathilde slept in Buvat’s arms. 

Things went on thus till the year 1712, at which time the 
great king found himself so embarrassed in his affairs that 
the only thing left for him to do was to leave off paying his 
employés. Buvat was warned of this administrative measure 
by the cashier, who announced to him one fine morning, when 
he presented himself to receive his month’s pay, that there 
was no money. Buvat looked at the man with an astonished 
air : it had never entered into his head that the king could 
be in want of money. He took no further notice of this 
answer, convinced that some accident only had interrupted 
the payment, and went back to his office singing his favourite 

“ Then let me go,” etc. 

“ Pardon, said the supernumerary, who after waiting for 
seven years had at last been named employé the first of the 
preceding month, “ you must be very light-hearted to sing 
when we are no longer paid.” 

“ What !” cried Buvat ; “ what do you mean ?” 

I mean that I suppose you have not gone to be paid * 


*43 


BATHILDË, 

** Yes, I have just come from there.** 

“ Did they pay you ?” 

“No ; they said there was no money.** 

“ And what do you think of that ?” 

“ Oh ! I think,” said Buvat, “ that they will pay the two 
months together.” 

“ Oh yes ! two months together ! Do you hear, Ducou- 
dray ? He thinks they will pay the two months together. 
He is a simple fellow, this Buvat.’* 

“ We shall see next month,” replied the second clerk. 

“ Yes,” replied Buvat, to whom this remark appeared very 
just, “ we shall see next month.” 

“ And if they do not pay you next month, nor the follow- 
ing months, what shall you do, Buvat ?” 

“ What shall I do !” said Buvat, astonished that there 
could be a doubt as to his resolution, “ I should come just 
the same.” 

“ What ! if you were not paid you would come still ?” 

“ Monsieur,” said Buvat, “ for ten years the king has paid 
me down on the nail ; surely after that he has a right to ask 
for a little credit if he is embarrassed.” 

“ Vile flatterer,” said the clerk. 

The month passed, and pay-day came again. Buvat pre- 
sented himself with the most perfect confidence that they 
would pay his arrears ; but to his astonishment they told him 
that there was still no money. Buvat asked when there 
would be any. The cashier replied that he should like to 
know. Buvat was quite confused, and went away ; but this 
time without singing. The same day the clerk resigned. 
Now as it was difficult to replace a clerk who resigned 
because he was not paid, and whose work must be done all 
the same, the chief told Buvat, besides his own work, to do 
that of the missing clerk. Buvat undertook it without mur- 
mur ; and as his ordinary work had left him some time free, 
at the end of the month the business was done. 

They did not pay the third month any more than the two 
others — it was a real bankruptcy. But as has been seen, 
Buvat never bargained with his duties. What he had pro- 
mised on the first impulse he did on reflection ; but he was 
forced to attack his treasure, which consisted of two years* 


144 


THE COXSPIRATORS, 


pay. Meanwhile Bathilde grew. She was now a young girl 
of thirteen or fourteen years old, whose beauty became every 
day more remarkable, and who began to understand all the 
difficulties of her position. For some time the walks in the 
Porcheron and the expedition to Montmartre had been given 
up under pretext that she preferred remaining at home to 
draw or play on the harpsichord. 

Buvat did not understand these sedentary tastes which 
Bathilde had acquired so suddenly. And as, after having 
tried two or three times to go out without her, he found that 
it was not the walk itself he cared for, he resolved, as he 
must have air upon a Sunday, to look for a lodging with a 
garden. But lodgings with gardens were too dear for his 
finances, and having seen the lodging in the Rue du I'emps- 
Perdu, he had the bright idea of replacing the garden by a 
terrace. He came back to tell Bathilde what he had seen, 
telling her that the only inconvenience in this lodging would 
be that their rooms must be separated, and that she would be 
obliged to sleep on the fourth floor with Nanette, and he on 
the fifth. This was rather a recommendation to Bathilde. 
For some time she had begun to feel it inconvenient that 
her room should be only separated by a door from that of a 
man still young, and who was neither her father nor her 
husband. She therefore assured Buvat that the lodging 
must suit him admirably, and advised him to secure it at 
once. Buvat was delighted, and the same day gave notice 
to quit his old lodgings, and at the half-term he moved. 

Bathilde was right ; for since her black mantle sketched 
her beautiful shoulders — since her mittens showed the pret- 
tiest fingers in the world — since of the Bathilde of former 
times there was nothing left but her childish feet, every one 
began to remark that Buvat was young — that the tutor and 
the pupil were living under the same roof. In fact, the 
gos ips who, when Bathilde was six years old, worshipped 
Buvat’s footsteps, now began to cry out about his criminality 
because she was fifteen. Poor Buvat ! If ever echo was 
innocent and pure, it was that of the room which adjoined 
Bathilde’s, and which for ten years had sheltered his good 
round head, into which a bad thought had never entered, 
even in dreams 


BATHILDE, 


I4S 


But on arriving at the Rue du Temps-Perdu it was still 
worse. In the Rue Pagevin, where his admirable conduct 
to the child was known, this remembrance had protected him 
against calumny ; but in their new quarter this was quite un- 
known, and their inscribing themselves under two different 
names prevented any idea of very near relationship. Seme 
supposed that they saw in Bathilde the result of an old 
passion which the Church had forgotten to consecrate, but 
this idea fell at the first examination. Bathilde was tall and 
slender, Buvat short and fat ; Bathilde had brilliant black 
eyes, Buvat’s were blue and expressionless ; Bathilde’s face 
was white and smooth, Buvat’s face was bright red. In fact, 
Bathilde’s whole person breathed elegance and distinction, 
while poor Buvat was the type of vulgar good-nature. The 
result of this was, that the women began to look at Bathilde 
with contempt, and that men called Buvat a lucky fellow. 
The previsions of the clerk who resigned were realised. For 
eighteen months Buvat had not touched a sou of his pay, and 
yet had not relaxed for a moment in his punctuality. More- 
over, he was haunted with a fear that the ministry would 
turn away a third of the clerks for the sake of economy. 
Buvat would have looked on the loss of his place as a 
great misfortune, although it took him six hours a-day which 
he might have employed in a lucrative manner. They took 
care not to dismiss a man who worked the better the less 
they paid him. 

Bathilde began to think that there was something passing 
of which she was ignorant She thought it would be no use 
to ask Buvat, and addressing herself to Nanette, who, after a 
short time, avowed all to her, Bathilde learnt for the first 
time all she owed to Buvat ; and that to pay her mastere, 
and to amass her dowry, Buvat worked from morning till 
night ; and that in spite of this, as his salary was not paid, 
he would be obliged sooner or later to tell Bathilde that 
they must retrench all expenses that were not absolutely 
necessary. 

Bathilde’s first impulse on learning this devotion was to 
fall at Buvat’s feet and express her gratitude ; but she soon 
understood that, to arrive at her desired end, she must feign 
ignorance. 

lO 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


I4G 

The next day Bathilde told Buvat, laughing, that it was 
throwing away money to keep her masters any longer, for 
she knew as much as they did; and as, in Buvat’s eyes, 
Bathilde’s drawings were the most beautiful things in the 
world, and as, when she sang, he was in the seventh heaven, 
he found no difficulty in believing her, particularly as her 
masters, with unusual candour, avowed that their pupil knew 
enough to study alone; but Bathilde had a purifying influence 
on all who approached her. Bathilde was not satisfied with 
saving expense, but also wished to increase his gains. Al* 
though she had made equal progress in music and drawing, 
she understood that drawing was her only resource, and that 
music could be nothing but a relaxation. She reserved all 
her attention for drawing ; and as she was really very talented, 
she soon made charming sketches. At last one day she wished 
to know what they were worth ; and she asked Buvat, in 
going to his office, to show them to the person from whom 
she bought her paper and crayons, and who lived at the 
corner of the Rue de Cléry. She gave him two children’s 
heads which she had drawn from fancy, to ask their value. 
Buvat undertook the commission without suspecting any 
trick, and executed it with his ordinary naïveté. The dealer, 
accustomed to such propositions, turned them round and 
round with a disdainful air, and, criticising them severely, 
said that he could only offer fifteen francs each for them. 
Buvat was hurt not by the price offered, but by the disre- 
spectful manner in which the shopkeeper had spoken of 
Bathilde’s talent He drew them quickly out of the dealer’s 
hands, saying that he thanked him. 

The man, thinking that Buvat thought the price too small, 
5 aid that, for friendship’s sake, he would go as high as forty 
francs for the two ; but Buvat, offended at the slight offered 
to the genius of his ward, answered dryly that the drawings 
which he had shown him were not for sale, and that he had 
only asked their value through curiosity. Every one knows 
that from the moment drawings are not for sale they increase 
singularly in value, and the dealer at length offered fifty 
francs ; but Buvat, little tempted by this proposition, by 
which he did not even dream of profiting, took the drawings 
and left the shop with all the dignity of wounded pride. 


BATHJLDE, 


*47 


When he returned, the dealer was standing, as if by chance, 
at his door. Buvat, seeing him, kept at a distance ; but the 
shopkeeper came to him, and, putting his two hands on his 
shoulders, asked him if he would not let him have the two 
drawings for the price he had named. Buvat replied a second 
time, sharply, that they were not for sale. “ That is a pity,” 
replied the dealer, “ for I would have given eighty francs.” 
And he returned to his door with an indifferent air, but 
watching Buvat as he did so. Buvat, however, went on with 
a pride that was almost grotesque, and, without turning once, 
went straight home. Bathilde heard him, as he came up the 
staircase, striking his cane against the balusters, as he was in 
the habit of doing. She ran out to meet him, for she was 
very anxious to hear the result of the negotiation, and, with 
the remains of her childish habits, throwing her arms round 
his neck — 

“ Well, my friend,” asked she, ** what did M. Papillon 
say ?” 

“ M. Papillon,” replied Buvat, wiping his forehead, “is an 
impertinent rascal.” 

Poor Bathilde turned pale. 

“ How so ?” asked she. 

“ Yes ; an impertinent rascal, who, instead of admiring 
your drawings, has dared to criticise them.” 

“ Oh ! if that is all,” said Bathilde, laughing, “ he is 
right. Remember that I am but a scholar. But did he offer 
any price ?” 

“Yes,” said Buvat; “he had impertinence enough for 
that” 

“ What price ?” asked Bathilde, trembling. 

“He offered eighty francs.” 

“ Eighty francs !” cried Bathilde. “ Oh ! you must be 
mistaken.” 

“ I tell you he offered eighty francs for the two,” replied 
Buvat, laying a stress on each syllable. 

“ But it is four times as much as they are worth,” said the 
young girl, clapping her hands for joy.^ 

“ It is possible, though I do not think so; but it is none 
the less true that M. Papillon is an impertinent rascal !” 

This was not Bathilde’s opinion ; but she changed the con 

10 2 


THE CONSPIRA TOPS, 


versation, saying that dinner was ready — an announcement 
which generally gave a new course to Buvat’s ideas. Buvat 
gave back the drawings to Bathilde without further observa- 
tion, and entered the little sitting-room, singing the inevitable, 
“ Then let me go,” etc. 

He dined with as good an appetite as if there had been no 
M. Papillon in the world. The same evening, while Buvat 
was making copies, Bathilde gave the drawings to Nanette, 
telling her to take them to M. Papillon, and ask for the eighty 
francs he had offered to Buvat. Nanette obeyed, and Bathilde 
awaited her return with great anxiety, for she still believed 
there must be some mistake as to the price. Ten minutes 
afterwards she was quite assured, for the good woman entered 
with the money. Bathilde looked at it for an instant with 
tears in her eyes, then kneeling before the crucifix at the foot 
of her bed, she offered up a thanksgiving that she was enabled 
to return to Buvat a part of what he had done for her. 

The next day Buvat, in returning from the office, passed 
before Papillon’s door, but his astonishment was great when, 
through the windows of the shop, he saw the drawings. The 
door opened, and Papillon appeared. 

“ So/’ said he, “ you thought better of it, and made up 
your mind to part with the two drawings which were not for 
sale ? Ah ! I did not know you were so cunning, neighbour. 
But, however, tell Mademoiselle Bathilde, that, as she is a 
good girl, out of consideration for her, if she will do two such 
drawings every month, and promise not to draw for any one 
else for a year, I will take them at the same price.’ 

Buvat was astonished ; he grumbled out an answer which 
the man could not hear, and went home. He went upstairs 
and opened the door without Bathilde having heard him. 
She was drawing; she had already begun another head, 
and perceiving her good friend standing at the door with a 
troubled air, she put down her paper and pencils, and ran 
to him, asking what was the matter. Buvat wiped away two 
great tears. 

“ So,” said he, “ the child of my benefactors, of Clarice 
Gray and Albert du Rocher, is working for her bread !” 

“Father,” replied Bathilde, half crying, half laughing; 
" I am not working, I am amusing myself” 


BATHILDE, 


149 


The word “ father ” was substituted on great occasions for 
** kind friend,” and ordinarily had the effect of calming his 
greatest troubles, but this time it failed. 

1 am neither your father, nor your good friend,” mur- 
mured he, “ but simply poor Buvat, whom the king pays no 
longer, and who does not gain enough by his writing to con- 
tinue to give you the education you ought to have.” 

“ Oh ! you want to make me die with grief,” cried Bathilde, 
bursting into tears, so plainly was Buvat’s distress painted on 
his countenance. 

“ I kill you with grief, my child ?” said Buvat, with an 
accent of profound tenderness. “ What have I done ? What 
have I said ? You must not cry. It wanted nothing but 
that to make me miserable.” 

“ But,” said Bathilde, “ I shall always cry if you do not 
let me do what I like.” 

This threat of Bathilde’s, puerile as it was, made Buvat 
tremble ; for, since the day when the child wept for her 
mother, not a tear had fallen from her eyes. 

“ Well,” said Buvat, “ do as you like, but promise me that 
when the king pays my arrears ” 

“ Well, well,” cried Bathilde, interrupting him, “ we shall 
see all that later; meanwhile, the dinner is getting cold.” 
And, taking him by the arm, she led him into the little room, 
where, by her jokes and gaiety, she soon succeeded in re- 
moving the last traces of sadness from Buvat’s face. 

What v\ ould he have said if he had known all ? 

Bathilde thought she could do the two drawings for M. 
Papillon in eight or ten days ; there therefore remained the 
half, at least, of every month, which she was determined not 
to lose. She, therefore, charged Nanette to search amongst 
the neighbours for some difficult, and, consequently, well- 
paid needlework, which she could do in Buvat’s absence. 
Nanette easily found what she sought. It was the time for 
laces. The great ladies paid fifty louis a yard for guipure, 
and then ran carelessly through the woods with these trans- 
parent dresses. The result of this was, that many a rent had 
to be concealed from mothers and husbands, so that at this 
time there was more to be made by mending than by selling 
laces. From her first attempt, Bathilde did wonders ; her 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


ISO 

needle seemed to be that of a fairy Nanette received many 
compliments on the work of the unknown Penelope, who did 
by day what was undone by night. Thanks to Bathilde’s in- 
dustry, they began to have much greater ease in their house. 

Buvat, more tranquil, and seeing that he must renounce, 
his Sunday walks, determined to be satisfied with the famous 
terrace which had determined him in the choice of his house. 
For a week he spent an hour morning and evening taking 
measures, without any one knowing what he intended to do, 
At length he decided on having a fountain, a grotto, and an 
arbour. Collecting the materials for these, and afterwards 
building them, had occupied all Buvat’s spare time for twelve 
months. During this time Bathilde had passed from her 
fifteenth to her sixteenth year, and the charming child into a 
beautiful woman. It was during this time that her neigh- 
bour, Boniface Denis, had remarked her, and his mother, 
who could refuse him nothing, after having been for infor- 
mation to the Rue Pagevin, had presented herself, under 
pretext of neighbourhood, to Buvat and his ward, and, after 
a little while, invited them both to pass Sunday evenings with 
her. 

The invitation was given with so good a grace that there 
was no means of refusing it, and, indeed, Buvat was delighted 
that some opportunity of amusement should be presented to 
Bathilde ; besides, as he knew that Madame Denis had two 
daughters, perhaps he was not sorry to enjoy that triumph 
which his paternal pride assured him Bathilde could not fail 
to obtain over Mademoiselle Emilie and Mademoiselle Athe- 
nais. However, things did not pass exactly as he had ar- 
ranged them. Bathilde soon saw the mediocrity of her rivals, 
so that when they spoke of drawing, and called on her to 
admire some heads by these young ladies, she pretended to 
have nothing in the house that she could show, while Buvat 
knew that there were in her portfolio two heads, one of the in-.i 
fant Jesus, and one of St. John, both charming; but this was 
not all — the Misses Denis sang ; and when they asked Ba- 
thilde to sing, she chose a simple little romance in two verses, 
which lasted five minutes, instead of the grand scene which 
Buvat had expected. 

However, this conduct appeai'ed singularly to increase the 


BATHILDE, 


IS* 

regard of Madame Denis for the young girl, for Madame 
Denis was not without some uneasiness with respect to the 
event of an artistic struggle between the young people. Ba- 
thilde was overwhelmed with caresses by the good woman, 
who, when she was gone, declared she was full of talents and 
modesty, and that she well deserved all the praises lavished 
upon her. A retired silk-mercer raised her voice to recall the 
strange position of the tutor and the pupil, but Madame 
Dt'nis imposed silence on this malicious tongue by declaring 
that she knew the whole history from beginning to end, and 
that it did the greatest honour to both her neighbours. It 
v\ as a small lie, however, of good Madame Denis, but it was 
doubtless pardoned in consideration of the intention. 

As to Boniface, in company he was dumb and a nonentity; 
he had been this evening so remarkably stupid that Bathilde 
had hardly noticed him at all. 

But it was not thus with Boniface, who, having admired 
Bathilde from a distance, became quite crazy about her when 
he saw her near. He began to sit constantly at his window, 
which obliged Bathilde to keep hers closed ; for it will be re- 
membered that Boniface then inhabited the room now occu- 
pied by the Chevalier d’HarmentaL This conduct of Ba 
ihilde, in which it was impossible to see anything but supreme 
modesty, only augmented the passion of her neighbour. At 
his request, his mother went again to the Rue Pagevin, and 
to the Rue des Orties, where she had learned, from an old 
woman, something of the death-scene we have related, and in 
which Buvat played so noble a part. She had forgotten the 
names, and she only remembered that the father was a hand- 
some young officer, who had been killed in Spain, and that 
the mother was a charming young woman, who had died of 
grief and poverty. 

Boniface also had been in search of news, and had learned 
from his employer, who was a friend of Buvat’s notary, that 
every year, for six years past, five hundred francs had been 
deposited with him in Bathilde’s name, which, with the in- 
terest, formed a little capital of seven or eight thousand 
francs. This was not much for Boniface, who, as his mother 
said, would have three thousand francs a year, but at least 
it showed that Bathilde was not destitute. At the end of a 


152 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


month, during which time Madame Denis’s friendship fof 
Bathilde did not diminish, seeing that her son’s love greatly 
increased, she determined to ask her hand for him. One 
afternoon, as Buvat returned from business, Madame Denis 
waited for him at her door, and made a sign to him that she 
had something to say to him. Buvat followed her politely 
into her room, of which she closed the door, that she might 
not be interrupted ; and when Buvat was seated, she asked 
for the hand of Bathilde for her son. 

Buvat was quite bewildered. It had never entered his 
mind that Bathilde might marry. Life without Bathilde 
appeared so impossible a thing that he changed colour at the 
bare idea. Madame Denis did not fail to remark the strange 
effect that her request had produced on Buvat. She would 
not even allow him to think it had passed unnoticed. She 
offered him the bottle of salts which she always kept on the 
chimney-piece, that she might repeat three or four times a 
week that her nerves were very sensitive. 

Buvat, instead of simply smelling the salts from a reason- 
able distance, put it close up under his nose. The effect 
was rapid. He bounded to his feet, as if the angel of Hab- 
akkuk had taken him by the hair. He sneezed for about 
ten minutes ; then, having regained his senses, he said that 
he understood the honourable proposal made for Bathilde, 
but that he was only her guardian ; that he would tell her of 
the proposal, but must leave her free to accept or refuse. 

Madame Denis thought this perfectly right, and conducted 
him to the door, saying that, waiting a reply, she was their 
very humble servant. 

Buvat went home, and found Bathilde very uneasy ; he 
was half-an-hour late, which had not happened before for 
ten years. The uneasiness of the young girl was doubled 
when she saw Buvat’s sad and pre-occupied air, and she 
wanted to know directly what it was that caused the ab- 
stracted mien of her dear friend. Buvat, who had not had 
time to prepare a speech, tried to put off the explanation till 
after dinner ; but Bathilde declared that she should not go 
to dinner till she knew what had happened. Buvat was thus 
obliged to deliver on the spot, and without preparationj Ma- 
dame Denis’s proposal to Bathilde. 


BATHILDE, 


153 


Bathîlde blushed directly, as a young g^irl ahvajs does 
when they talk to her of marriage ; then, taking the hands of 
Buvat, -who was sitting down, trembling with fear, and look- 
ing at him with that sweet smile which was the sun of the 
J)oor writer, — 

“ Then, my dear father,” said she, ** you have had enough 
of your daughter, and you wish to get rid of her ?” 

‘‘ I,” said Buvat, “ I who wish to get rid of you ! No, 
my child ; it is I who shall die of grief if you leave me.” 

“ Then, my father, why do you talk to me of marriage ?” 

** Because — because — some day or other you must marry, 
and if you find a good partner, although, God knows, my 
little Bathilde deserves some one better than M. Boniface.” 

“No, my father,” answered Bathilde, “I do not deserve 
any one better than M. Boniface, but 

«Well— but?” 

“ But — I will never marry.” 

“ What !” cried Buvat, “ you will never marry ?” 

“ Why should I ? Are we not happy as we are ?” 

“ Are we not happy ?” echoed Buvat “ Sabre de bois / I 
believe we are.” 

Sabre de bois was an exclamation which Buvat allowed 
himself on great occasions, and which illustrated admirably 
the pacific inclinations of the worthy fellow. 

“ Well, then,” continued Bathilde, with her angel’s smile, 
“if we are happy, let us rest as we are. You know one 
should not tempt Providence.” 

“ Come and kiss me, my child,” said Buvat ; “ you have 
just lifted Montmartre off my stomach I” 

“ You did not wish for this marriage, then ?” 

“ I wish to see you married to that wretched little imp of 
a Boniface, against whom I took a dislike the first time I saw 
him ! I did not know why, though I know now.” 

“If you did not desire this marriage, why did you speak 
to me about it ?” 

“ Because you know well that I am not really your father, 
that I have no authority over you, that you are free.” 

“Indeed, am I free?” answered Bathilde, laughing. 

“ Free as air.” 

^ Well, then, if I am free, I refuse.” 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


IS4 

** Diable ! I am highly satisfied,” said Buvat ; ** but how 
shall I tell it to Madame Denis ?” 

“How ? Tell her that I am too young, that I do not wish 
to marry, that I want to stop with you always.” 

“ Come to dinner,” said Buvat, “ perhaps a bright idea 
will strike me when I am eating. It is odd ! my appetite has 
come back all of a sudden. Just now I thought I could not 
swallow a drop of water. Now I could drink the Seine dry.” 

Buvat drank like a Suisse, and ate like an ogre ; but, in 
spite of this infraction of his ordinary habits, no bright idea 
came to his aid ; so that he was obliged to tell Madame 
Denis openly that Bathilde was very much honoured by her 
selection, but that she did not wish to marry. 

This unexpected response perfectly dumb founded Madame 
Denis, who had never imagined that a poor little orphan like 
Bathilde could refuse so brilliant a match as her son ; conse- 
quently she answered very sharply that every one was free to 
act for themselves, and that, if Mademoiselle Bathilde chose 
to be an old maid, she was perfectly welcome. 

But when she reflected on this refusal, which her maternal 
pride could not understand, all the old calumnies which she 
had heard about the young girl and her guardian returned to 
her mind ; and as she was in a disposition to believe them, 
she made no further doubt that they were true, and when she 
transmitted their beautiful neighbour’s answer to Boniface, 
she said, to console him for this matrimonial disappointment, 
that it was very lucky that she had refused, since, if she had 
accepted, in consequence of what she had learnt, she could 
not have allowed such a marriage to be concluded. 

Madame Denis thought it unsuited to her dignity that after 
so humiliating a refusal her son should continue to inhabit 
the room opposite Bathilde’s, so she gave him one on the 
ground-floor, and announced that his old one was to let. 

A week after, as M. Boniface, to revenge himself on 
Bathilde, was teasing Mirza, who was standing in the door- 
way, not thinking it fine enough to trust her little white feet 
out of doors, Mirza, whom the habit of being fed had made 
very petulant, darted out on M. Boniface, and bit him cruelly 
in the calf. 

It was in consequence of this that the poor fellow, whose 


FIRST LOVE, 


tS5 

heart or leg was not very well healed, cautioned D’Harmental 
to beware of the coquetry of Bathildc, and to throw a sop to 
Mirza. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

FIRST LOVE. 

M. Boniface’s room remained vacant for three or four 
months, when one day Bathilde, who was accustomed to see 
the window closed, on raising her eyes found that it was open, 
and at the window she saw a strange face : it was that of 
D’HarmentaL Few such faces as that of the chevalier were 
seen in the Rue du Temps-Perdu. Bathilde, admirably 
situated, behind her curtain, for seeing without being seen, 
was attracted involuntarily. There was in our hero’s features 
a distinction and an elegance which could not escape Bathilde ’s 
eyes. The chevalier’s dress, simple as it was, betrayed the 
elegance of the wearer : then Bathilde had heard him give 
some orders, and they had been given with that inflection 
of voice which indicates in him who possesses it the habit of 
command. 

The young girl had discovered at the first glance that this 
man was very superior in all respects to him whom he suc- 
ceeded in the possession of this little room, and with that 
instinct so natural to persons of good birth, she at once re- 
cognised him as being of high family. The same day the 
chevalier had tried his harpsichord. At the first sound of 
the instrument Bathilde had raised her head. The chevaiier, 
though he did not know that he had a listener, or perhaps 
because he did not know it, went on with preludes and fan- 
tasias, which showed an amateur of no mean talents. At 
these sounds, which seemed to wake all the musical chords 
of her own organization, Bathilde had risen and approached 
the window that she might not lose a note, for such an 
amusement was unheard of in the Rue du Temps-Perdu. 
Then it was that D’Harmental had seen against the window 
the charming little fingers of his neighbour, and had driven 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


156 

them away by turning round so quickly that Bathilde could 
not doubt she had been seen. 

The next day Bathilde thought it was a long time since 
she had played, and sat down to her instrument. She began 
nervously, she knew not why ; but as she was an excellent 
musician, her fear soon passed away, and it was then that 
she executed so brilliantly that piece from Armida, which had 
been heard with so much astonishment by the chevalier and 
the Abbé Brigand. 

We have said how the following morning the chevalier had 
seen Buvat, and become acquainted with Bathilde’s name. 
The appearance of the young girl had made the deeper im- 
pression on the chevalier from its being so unexpected in 
such a place ; and he was still under the influence of the 
charm when Roquefinette entered, and gave a new direction 
to his thoughts, which, however, soon returned to Bathilde. 
The next day, Bathilde, who, profiting by the first ray of the 
spring sun, was early at her window, noticed in her turn that 
the eyes of the chevalier were ardently fixed upon her. She 
had noticed his face, young and handsome, but to which 
the thought of the responsibility he had taken gave a certain 
air of sadness ; but sadness and youth go so badly together, 
that this anomaly had struck her — this handsome young man 
had then something to annoy him — perhaps he was unhappy. 
What could it be ? Thus, from the second time she had seen 
him, Bathilde had very naturally meditated about the cheva- 
lier. This had not prevented Bathilde from shutting her 
window, but, from behind her window, she still saw the out- 
line of the chevalier’s sad face. She felt that D’Harmental 
was sad, and when she sat down to her harpsichord, was it 
not from a secret feeling that music is the consoler of troubled 
hearts ? 

That evening it was D’Harmental who played, and Bathilde 
listened with all her soul to the melodious voice which spoke 
of love in the dead of night Unluckily for the chevalier, 
;who, seeing the shadow of the young girl behind the drapery, 
began to think that he was making a favourable impression 
on the other side of the street, he had been interrupted in 
■his concert by the lodger on the third floor ; but the most 
important thing was accomplished — there was already a 


FIRST LOVE. 


IS7 

point of sympathy between the two young people, and they 
already spoke that language of the heart, the most dangerous 
of all 

Moreover, Bathilde, who had dreamed all night about 
music, and a little about the musician, felt that something 
strange and unknown to her was going on, and, attracted as 
she was towards the window, she kept it scrupulously closed j 
from this resulted the movement of impatience, under the 
influence of which the chevalier had gone to breakfast with 
Madame Denis. 

There he had learnt one important piece of news, which 
was, that Bathilde was neither the daughter, the wife, nor the 
niece of Buvat ; thus he went upstairs joyfully, and, finding 
the window open, he had put himself — in spite of the friendly 
advice of Boniface — in communication with Mirza, by means 
of bribing her with sugar. The unexpected return of Bathilde 
had interrupted this amusement; the chevalier, in his ego- 
tistical delicacy, had shut his window ; but, before the window 
had been shut, a salute had been exchanged between the two 
young people. This was more than Bathilde had ever ac- 
corded to any man, not that she had not from time to time 
exchanged salutes with some acquaintance of BuvaBs, but 
this was the first time she had blushed as she did so. 

The next day Bathilde had seen the chevalier at his window, 
and, without being able to understand the action, had seen 
him nail a crimson ribbon to the outer wall ; but what she 
had particularly remarked was the extraordinary animation 
visible on the face of the young man. Half-an-hour after- 
wards she had seen with the chevalier a man perfectly 
unknown to her, but whose appearance was not re-assuring ; 
this was Captain Roquefinette. Bathilde had also remarked, 
with a vague uneasiness, that, as soon as the man with the 
long sword had entered, the chevalier had fastened the 
door. 

The chevalier, as is easy to understand, had a long con- 
ference with the captain ; for they had to arrange all the 
preparations for the evening’s expedition. The chevalier’s 
window remained thus so long closed that Bathilde, thinking 
that he had gone out, had thought she might as well open 
her’s. 


153 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


Hardly was it open, however, when her neighbour's, which 
had seemed only to wait the moment to put itself in com- 
munication with her, opened in its turn. Luckily for Bathilde, 
who would have been much embarrassed by this circumstance, 
she was in that part of the room where the chevalier could 
not see her. She determined, therefore, to remain where 
she was, and sat down near the second half of the window, 
which was still shut 

Mirza, however, who had not the same scruples as her 
mistress, hardly saw the chevalier before she, ran to the 
window, placed her front paws on the sill, and began dancing 
on her hind ones. These attentions were rewarded, as she 
expected, by a first, then a second, then a third, lump of 
sugar ; but this third bit, to the no small astonishment of 
Bathilde, was wrapped up in a piece of paper. 

This piece of paper troubled Bathilde a great deal more 
than it did Mirza, who, accustomed to crackers and sucre de 
pomme, soon got the sugar out of its envelope by means of 
her paws ; and, as she thought very much of the inside, and 
very little of the wrapper, she ate the sugar, and, leaving the 
paper, ran to the window ; but the chevalier was gone : 
satisfied, no doubt, of Mirza’s skill, he had retired into his room. 

Bathilde was very much embarrassed ; she had seen, at 
the first glance, that the paper contained three or four lines 
of writing ; but, in spite of the sudden friendship which her 
neighbour seemed to have acquired for Mirza, it was evi- 
dently not to Mirza that he was writing letters — it must, 
therefore, be to her. What should she do ? Go and tear it 
up ? That would be noble and proper ; but, even if it were 
possible to do such a thing, the paper in which the sugar had 
been wrapped might have been written on some time, and 
then the action would be ridiculous in the highest degree, and 
it would show, at any rate, that she thought about the letter. 
Bathildé resolved, then, to leave things as they were. The 
chevalier could not know that she was at home, since he had 
not seen her ; he could not, therefore, draw any deduction 
from the fact that the paper remained on the floor. She 
therefore continued to work, or rather to reflect, hidden 
behind her curtain, as the chevalier, probably, was behind his. 

In about an hour, of which it must be confessed Bathilde 


FmST LOVE 


159 


passed three-quarters with her eyes fixed on the paper, 
Nanette entered. Bathilde, without moving, told her to shut 
the window — Nanette obeyed ; but in returning she saw the 
paper. 

“ What is that ?” asked she, stooping down to pick it up. 

“Nothing,” answered Bathilde quickly, forgetting that 
Nanette could not read, “ only a paper which has fallen out 
of my pocket.” Then, after an instant’s pause, and with a 
visible effort, “ and which you may throw on the fire,” con- 
tinued she. 

“ But perhaps it may be something important ; see what 
it is, at all events, mademoiselle.” And Nanette presented 
the letter to Bathilde. 

The temptation was too strong to resist. Bathilde cast 
her eyes on the paper, affecting an air of indifferenc as well 
as she could, and read as follows : 

“ They say you are an orphan : I have no parents ; we are, 
then, brother and sister before God. This evening I run a 
great danger ; but I hope to come out of it safe and sound 
if my sister — Bithilde — will pray for her brother Raoul.” 

“ You are right,” said Bathilde, in a moved voice, and, 
taking the paper from the hands of Nanette, “ that paper is 
more important than I thought;” and she put D’Harmental’s 
letter in the pocket of her apron. Five minutes after Nan- 
ette, who came in twenty times a day without any particular 
reason, went out as she had entered, and left Bathilde alone. 

Bathilde had only just glanced at the letter, and it had 
seemed to dazzle her. As soon as Nanette was gone she read 
it a second time. 

It would have been impossible to have said more in fewer 
words. If D’Harmental had taken a whole day to combine 
every word of the billet, instead of writing on the spur of 
the moment, he could not have done it better. Indeed, he 
established a similarity of position between himself and the 
orphan ; he interested Bathilde in her neighbour’s fate on 
account of a menacing danger, a danger which would appear 
all the greater to the young girl from her not knowing its 
nature ; and, finally, the expression brother and sister, so 
skilfully glided in at the end, and to ask a simple prayer, 
excluded from these first advances all idea of love. 


lôo 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


It followed, therefore, that, if at this moment Bathildehad 
found herself vis-a-vis with D’Harmental, instead of being 
embarrassed and blushing, as a young girl would who had just 
received her first love-letter, she would have taken him by 
the hand and said to him, smiling, — “Be satisfied, I vfill pray 
for you.” There remained, however, on the mind of Bathilde 
something more dangerous ^han all the declarations in the 
world, and that was the idea of the peril which her neighbour 
ran. By a sort of presentiment with which she had been 
seized on seeing him, with a face so different from his ordinary 
expression, nail the crimson ribbon to his window, and with- 
draw it directly the captain entered, she was almost sure that 
the danger was somehow connected with this new personage, 
whom she had never seen before. But how did this danger 
concern him? What was the nature of the danger itself? 
This was what she asked herself in vain. She thought of a 
duel, but to a man such as the chevalier appeared to be, a 
duel was not one of those dangers for which one asks the 
prayers of women ; besides, the hour named was not suitable 
to duels. Bathilde lost herself in her conjectures ; but, in 
losing herself, she thought of the chevalier, always of the 
chevalier, and of nothing but the chevalier ; and, if he had 
calculated upon such an effect, it must be owned that his 
calculations were wofully true for poor Bathilde. 

The day passed; and, whether it was intentional, or whether 
it was that he was otherwise employed, Bathilde saw him no 
more, and his window remained closed. When Buvat came 
home as usual, at ten minutes after four, he found the young 
girl so much pre-occupied that, although his perspicacity was 
not great in such matters, he asked her three or four times if 
anything was wrong ; each time she answered by one of those 
smiles which supplied Buvat with enough to do in looking at 
her ; ateid it followed that, in spite of these repeated questions, 
Bathilde kept her secret. 

After dinner M. Chaulieu’s servant entered — he came to 
ask Buvat to spend the evening with his master. The Abbé 
Chaulieu was one of Buvat’s best patrons, and often came to 
his house, for he had taken a great liking for Bathilde. The 
poor abbé became blind, but not so entirely as not to be 
able to recognise a prettv face ; though it is true that he saw 


FIRST LOVE, 


t6i 


it across a cloud. The abbé had told Bathilde, in his sexa- 
genarian gallantry, that his only consolation was that it is thus 
that one sees the angels. 

Bathilde thanked the good abbé from the bottom of her 
heart for thus getting her an evening’s solitude. She knew 
that when Buvat went to the Abbé Chaulieu he ordinarily 
stayed some time ; she hoped, then, that he would stop late as 
usual. Poor Buvat went out, without imagining that for the 
first time she desired his absence. 

Buvat was a lounger, as every bourgeois of Paris ought to 
be. From one end to the other of the Palais Royal, he stared 
at the shops, stopping for the thousandth time before the 
things which generally drew his attention. On leaving the 
colonnade, he heard singing, and saw a group of men and 
women, who were listening to the songs ; he joined them, and 
listened too. At the moment of the collection he went away, 
not from a bad heart, nor that he would have wished to refuse 
the admirable musician the reward which was his due, but 
that by an old habit, of which time had proved the advan- 
tage, he always came out without money, so that by whatever 
he was tempted he was sure to overcome the temptation. 
This evening he was much tempted to drop a sou into the 
singer’s bowl, but as he had not a sou in his pocket, he was 
obliged to go away. He made his way then, as we have seen, 
towards the Barrière des Sergents, passed up the Rue du 
Coq, crossed the Pont-Neuf, returned along the quay so far as 
the Rue Mazarine ; it was in the Rue Mazarine that the Abbé 
Chaulieu lived. 

The Abbé Chaulieu recognised Buvat, whose excellent 
qualities he had appreciated during their two years’ acquaint- 
ance, and with much pressing on his part, and many diffi- 
culties on Buvat’s, made him sit down near himself, before a 
table covered with papers. It is true that at first Buvat sat 
on the very edge of his chair ; gradually, however, he got 
further and further on — put his hat on the ground — took his 
cane between his legs, and found himself sitting almost like 
any one else. 

The work that there was to be done did not promise a 
short sitting ; there were thirty or forty poems on the table to 
be classified — numbered, and, as the abbé’s servant was hia 

II 


j 62 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


amanuensis, corrected ; so that it was eleven o’clock before 
they thought that it had struck nine. They had just finished 
and Buvat rose, horrified at having to come home at such 
an hour. It was the first time such a thing had ever hap- 
pened to him ; he rolled up the manuscript, tied it with a 
red ribbon, which had probably served as a sash to Made- 
moiselle Delaunay, put it in his pocket, took his cane, picked 
up his hat, and left the house, abridging his leave-taking as 
much as possible. To add to his misfortunes there was no 
moon-light, the night was cloudy. Buvat regretted not 
having two sous in his pocket to cross the ferry which was 
then where now stands the Pont des Arts; but we have 
already explained Buvat’s theory to our readers, and he was 
obliged to return as he had come — by the Quai Conti, the 
Rue Pont-Neuf, the Rue du Coq, and the Rue Saint Honoré. 

Everything had gone right so far, and except the statue of 
Henry IV., of which Buvat had forgotten either the existence 
or the place, and which had frightened him terribly, and the 
Samaritaine, which, fifty steps off, had struck the half-hour 
without any preparation, the noise of which had made poor 
ibelated Buvat tremble from head to foot, he had run no real 
peril, but on arriving at the Rue des Bons Enfants things 
tQpk ^ different look. In the first place the aspect of the 
street itselÇ long, narrow, and only lighted by two flickering 
lanthorns in the whole length, was not reassuring, and this 
evening it had to Buvat a very singular appearance ; he did 
not know whether he was asleep or awake ; he fancied that 
he saw before him some fantastic vision, such as he had 
heard told of the old Flemish sorceries ; the streets seemed 
alive — the posts seemed to oppose themselves to his passage 
— the recesses of the doors whispered to each other — men 
crossed like shadows from one side of the street to the other; 
at last, when he had arrived at number 24, he was stopped, 
as we have seen, by the chevalier and the captain. It was 
then that D’Harmental had recognised him, and had pro- 
tected him against the first impulse of Roquefinette, inviting 
him to continue his route as quickly as possible. There was 
no need to repeat the request — Buvat set off at a trot, gained 
the Place des Victoires, the Rue du Mail, the Rue Mont- 
martre, and at last arrived at his own house, No. 4, Rue du 


FIRST LOVE, 163 

Temps-Perdu, where, nevertheless, he did not think himself 
safe, till he had shut the door, and bolted it behind him. 

There h.i stopped an instant to breathe, and to light his 
candle — then ascended the stairs, but he felt in his legs the 
effect of the occurrence, for he trembled so that he could 
hardly get to the top. 

As to Bathilde, she had remained alone, getting more ana 
more uneasy as the evening advanced. Up to seven o’clock 
she had seen a light in her neighbour’s room, but at that 
time the lamp had been extinguished, and had not been re- 
ighted. Then Bathilde’s time became divided between two 
occupations, — one of which consisted in standing at her 
window to see if her neighbour did not return ; the other in 
kneeling before the crucifix, where she said her evening 
prayers. She heard nine, ten, eleven, and half-past eleven, 
strike successively. She had heard all the noises in the 
streets die away one by one, and sink gradually into that 
vague and heavy sound which seems the breathing of a 
sleeping town ; and all this without bringing her the slightest 
inkling as to whether he who had called himself her brother 
had sunk under the danger which hung over his head, or 
come triumphant through the crisis. 

She was then in her own room, without light, so that no 
one might see that she was watching, and kneeling before her 
crucifix for the tenth time, when the door opened, and, by the 
light of his candle, she saw Buvat so pale and haggard, that 
she knew in an instant that something must have happened 
to him, and she rose, in spite of the uneasiness she felt for 
another, and darted towards him, asking what was the matter. 
But it was no easy thing to make Buvat speak, in the state 
he then was; the shock had reached his mind, and his 
tongue stammered as much as his legs trembled. 

Still, when Buvat was seated in his easy chair, and had 
wiped his forehead with his handkerchief^ when he had 
made two or three journeys to the door to see that his ter- 
rible hosts of the Rue des Bons Enfants had not followed 
him home, he began to stutter out his adventure. He told 
how he had been stopped in the Rue des Bons Enfants by 
a band of robbers, whose lieutenant, a ferocious-looking man 
nearly six feet high, had wanted to kill him, when the captain 


i64 


THE CONSPIRATORSi 


had come and saved his life. Bathilde listened with rapt 
attention, first, because she loved her guardian sincerely, and 
that his condition showed that — right or wrong — he had 
Deen greatly terrified ; next, because nothing that happened 
that night seemed indifferent to her ; and, strange as the idea 
was, it seemed to her that the handsome young man was not 
wholly unconnected with the scene in which Buvat had just 
played a part. She asked him if he had time to observe the 
face of the young man who had come to his aid, and saved 
his life. 

Buvat answered that he had seen him face to face, as he 
saw her at that moment, and that the proof was that he was 
a handsome young man of from five to six and twenty, in a 
large felt hat, and wrapped in a cloak ; moreover, in the 
movement which he had made in stretching out his hand to 
protect him, the cloak had opened, and shown that, besides 
his sword, he carried a pair of pistols in his belt. These 
details were too precise to allow Buvat to be accused of 
dreaming. Preoccupied as Bathilde was with the danger 
which the chevalier ran, she was none the less touched by 
that, smaller no doubt, but still real, which Buvat hftd just 
escaped ; and as repose is the best remedy for all shocks, 
physical or moral, after offering him the glass of wine and 
sugar which he allowed himself on great occasions, and 
which nevertheless he refused on this one, she reminded him 
of his bed, where he ought to have been two hours before. 

The shock had been violent enough to deprive Buvat of 
all wish for sleep, and even to convince him that he should 
sleep badly that night ; but he reflected that in sitting up he 
should force Bathilde to sit up, and should see her in the 
morning with red eyes and pale cheeks, and, with his usual 
sacrifice of self, he told Bathilde that she was right — that he 
felt that sleep would do him good — lit his candle — kissed 
her forehead — and w^ent up to his own room ; not without 
stopping two or three times on the staircase to hear if there 
was any noise. 

Left alone, Bathilde listened to the steps of Buvat. who went 
up into his own room ; then she heard the creaking of his 
door, which he double locked ; then, almost as trembling as 
Buvat himself, she ran to the window, forgetting even to pray. 


FIRST LOVE, 


She remained thus for nearly an hour, but without having 
kept any measure of time. Then she gave a cry of joy, for 
through the window, which no curtain now obscured, she 
saw her neighbour’s door open, and D'Harmental enter with 
a candle in his hand. 

By a miracle of foresight Bathilde had been right — the 
man in the felt hat and the cloak, who had protected Buvat, 
was really the young stranger, for the stranger had on a felt 
hat and a cloak ; and moreover, hardly had he returned and 
shut the door, with almost as much care as Buvat had his, 
and thrown his cloak on a chair, than she saw that he had a 
tight coat of a dark colour, and in his belt a sword and 
pistols. There was no longer any doubt ; it was from head 
to foot the description given by Buvat. Bathilde was the 
more able to assure herself of this, that D’Harmental, with- 
out taking off any of his attire, took two or three turns in 
his room, his arms crossed, and thinking deeply ; then he 
took his pistols from his belt, assured himself that they were 
primed, and placed them on the table near his bed, un- 
clasped his sword, took it half out of the scabbard, replaced 
it, and put it under his pillow ; then, shaking his head, as if 
to shake out the sombre ideas that annoyed him, he ap- 
proached the window, opened it, and gazed earnestly at that 
cf the young girl, who, forgetting that she could not be seen, 
stepped back, and let the curtain fall before her, as if the 
darkness which surrounded her w’ere not a sufficient screen. 

She remained thus motionless and silent, her hand on her 
heart, as if to still its beatings ; then she quietly raised the 
curtain, but that of her neighbour was doM n, and she saw 
Dotliing but his shadow passing and repassing before it 


tbb 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

THE CONSUL DUILIUS. 

The morning following the day, or rather the night, on which 
the events we have just related had occurred, the Due 
d’Orleans, who had returned to the Palais Royal without 
accident, after having slept all night as usual, passed into 
his study at his accustomed hour — that is to say, about 
eleven o’clock. Thanks to the sang-froid with which nature 
had blessed him, and which he owed chiefly to his great 
courage, to his disdain for danger, and his carelessness of 
death, not only was it impossible to observe in him any 
change from his ordinary calm, which ennui only turned to 
gloom, but he had most probably already forgotten the 
strange event of which he had so nearly been the victim. 

The study into which he had just entered was remarkable 
as belonging to a man at once a savant, a politician, and an 
artist Thus a large table covered with a green cloth, and 
loaded with papers, inkstand, and pens, occupied the middle 
of the room ; but all round, on desks, on easels, on stands, 
were an opera commenced, a half-finished drawing, a 
chemical retort, etc. The regent, with a strange versatility 
of mind, passed in an instant from the deepest problems of 
politics to the most capricious fancies of painting, and from 
the most delicate calculations of chemistry to the sombre or 
joyous inspirations of music The regent feared nothing but 
ennui, that enemy against whom he struggled unceasingly, 
without ever quite succeeding in conquering it, and which, 
repulsed by work, study, or pleasure, yet remained in sight 
— if one may say so — like one of those clouds on the horizon, 
towards which, even in the finest days, the pilot involuntarily 
turns his eyes. The regent was never unoccupied, and had 
the most opposite amusements always at hand. 

On entering his study, where the council were to meet in 
two hours, he went towards an unfinished drawing, represent- 


THE CONSUL DUILIUS. 


167 


ing a scene from “ Daphnis and Chloe,” and returned to the 
work, interrupted two days before by that famous game of 
tennis, which had commenced by a racket blow, and finished 
by the supper at Madame de Sabran’s. 

A messenger came to tell him that Madame Elizabeth 
Charlotte, his mother, had asked twice if he were up. The 
regent, who had the most profound respect for the princess 
palatine, sent word, that not only was he visible, but that if 
madame were ready to receive him, he would pay her a visit 
directly. He then returned to his work with all the eager- 
ness of an artist. Shortly after the door opened, and his 
mother herself appeared. • 

Madame, the wife of Philippe, the first brother of the king, 
came to France after the strange and unexpected death of 
Madame Henriette of England, to take the place of that 
beautiful and gracious princess, who had passed from the 
scene like a dream. This comparison, difficult to sustain 
for any new-comer, was doubly so to the poor German 
princess, who, if we may believe her own portrait, with her 
little eyes, her short and thick nose, her long thin lips, her 
hanging cheeks and her large face, was far from being pretty. 
Unfortunately, the faults of her face were not compensated 
for by beauty of figure. She was little and fat, with a short 
body and legs, and such frightful hands, that she avows her- 
self that there were none uglier to be found in the world, 
and that it was the only thing about her to which Louis XIV. 
could never become accustomed. But Louis XIV. had 
chosen her, not to increase the beauties of his court, but to 
extend his influence beyond the Rhine. 

By the marriage of his brother with the princess palatine, 
Louis XIV., who had already acquired some chance of in- 
heritance in Spain, by marrying Maria Theresa, and by 
Philippe the First’s marriage with the Princess Henriette, 
or.ly sister of Charles IL, would acquire new rights over 
Bavaria, and probably in ‘the Palatinate. He calculated, and 
calculated rightly, that her brother, who was delicate, would 
probably die young, and without children. 

Madame, instead of being treated at her husband’s death 
according to her marriage contract, and forced to retire into 
a convent, or into the old castle of Montargis, was, in spite 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


loS 

of Madame de Maintenon’s hatred, maintained by Louis 
XIV. in all the titles and honours which she enjoyed during 
her husband’s lifetime, although the king had not forgotten 
the blow which she gave to the young Due de Chartres at 
Versailles, when he announced his marriage with Made- 
moiselle de Blois. The proud princess, with her thirty-two 
quarterings, thought it a humiliation that her son should 
marry a woman whom the royal legitimation could not pre- 
vent from being the fruit of a double adultery, and at the 
first moment, unable to command her feelings, she revenged 
herself by this maternal correction, rather exaggerated, when 
a young man of eighteen was the object, for the affront 
offered to the honour of her ancestors. 

As the young Due de Chartres had himself only con- 
sented unwillingly to this marriage, he easily understood his 
mother’s dislike to it, though he would have preferred, doubt- 
less, that she should have shown it in a rather less Teutonic 
manner. The result was, that when Monsieur died, and the 
Due de Chartres became Due d’Orleans, his mother, who 
might have feared that the blow at Versailles had left some 
disagreeable reminiscence in the mind of the new master of 
the Palais Royal, found, on the contrary, a more respectful 
son than ever. This respect increased, and as regent he 
gave his mother a position equal to that of his wife. When 
Madame de Berry, his much-loved daughter, asked her father 
for a company of guards, he granted it, but ordered at the 
same time that a similar company should be given to his 
mother. 

Madame held thus a high position, and if, in spite of that 
position, she had no political influence, the reason was that 
the regent made it a principle of action never to allow women 
to meddle with state affairs. It may be also, that Philippe 
the Second, Regent of France, was more reserved towards his 
mother than towards his mistresses, for he knew her epis- 
tolary inclinations, and he had no fancy for seeing his pro- 
jects made the subjects of the daily correspondence which 
she kept up with the Princess Wilhelmina Charlotte, and the 
Duke Anthony Ulric of Brunswick. In exchange for this 
loss, he left her the management of the house and of his 
daughters, which, from her overpowering idleness, tue 


THE CONSUL DUILÎUS, 


169 


Duchesse d’Orléans abandoned willingly to her mother-in- 
law. In this Last particular, however, the poor paiatine (if 
one may believe the memoirs written at the time) was not 
happy. Madame de Berry lived publicly with Riom, anc 
Mademoiselle de Valois was secretly the mistress of Richelieu, 
who, without anybody knowing how, and as if he had th( 
enchanted ring of Gyges, appeared to get into her rooms, 
in spite of the guards who watched the doors, in spite of tht 
spies with whom the regent surrounded him, and though, 
more than once, he had hidden himself in his daughter’s 
room to watch. 

As to Mademoiselle de Chartres, whose character had as 
yet seemed much more masculine than feminine, she, in 
making a man of herself, as one may say, seemed to forget 
that other men existed, when, some days before the time 
at which we have arrived, being at the opera, and hearing her 
music master, Cauchereau, the finished and expressive singer 
of the Academie Royal, who, in a love scene, was prolonging 
a note full of the most exquisite grace and feeling, the young 
princess, carried away by artistic enthusiasm, stretched out 
her arms and cried aloud, — “Ah ! my dear Cauchereau !” 
This unexpected exclamation had troubled her mother, who 
hajd sent away the beautiful tenor, and, putting aside her 
habitual apathy, determined to watch over her daughter her- 
self. There remained the Princess Louise, who was after- 
wards Queen of Spain, and Mademoiselle Elizabeth, who 
became the Duchesse de Lorraine, but as to them there was 
nothing said; either they were really wise, or else they 
understood better than their elders how to restrain the 
sentiments of their hearts, or the accents of passion. As 
soon as the prince saw his mother appear, he thought some- 
thing new was wrong in the rebellious troop of which she 
had taken the command, and which gave her such trouble ; 
but, as nothing could make him forget the respect which, in 
public and in private, he paid to his mother, he rose on 
seeing her, and after having bowed, and taking her hand to 
lead her to a seat, he remained standing himself 

“Well, my son,” said madame, with a strong German 
accent, “ what is this that I hear, and what happened to you 
last evening ?” 


170 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


‘‘ Last evening ?” said the regent, recalling his thoughts 
and questioning himself. 

“ Yes,” answered the palatine, ** last evening, in coming 
home from Madame de Sabran’s.” 

Oh ! it is only that,” said the prince. 

“ How, only that ! your friend Simiane goes about every- 
where saying that they wanted to carry you off, and that you 
only escaped by coming across the roofs : a singular road, 
you will confess, for the regent of the kingdom, and by which, 
however devoted they may be to you, I doubt your ministers 
being willing to come to your council.” 

“ Simiane is a fool, mother,” answered the regent, not able 
to help laughing at his mother’s still scolding him as if he 
were a child, “ it was not anybody who wanted to carry me 
away, but some roisterers who had been drinking at some 
cabaret by the Barrière des Sergents, and who were come to 
make a row in the Rue des Bons Enfants. As to the road 
we followed, it was for no sort of flight upon earth that I took 
it, but simply to gain a wager which that drunken Simiane is 
furious at having lost.” 

“ My son, my son,” said the palatine, shaking her head, 
** you will never believe in danger, and yet you know what 
your enemies are capable of Believe me, my child, those 
who calumniate the soul would have few scruples about killing 
the body ; and you know that the Duchesse de Maine has said, 
‘ that the very day when she is quite sure that there is really 
nothing to be made out of her bastard of a husband, she will 
demand an audience of you, and drive her dagger into your 
heart.’ ” 

“ Bah ! my mother,” answered the regent, laughing, “ have 
you become a sufficiently good Catholic no longer to believe 
in predestination ? I believe in it, as you know. Would you 
wish me to plague my mind about a danger which has no 
existence ; or which, if it does exist, has its result already 
mscribed in the eternal book ? No, my mother, no ; the 
only use of all these exaggerated precautions is to sadden 
life. Let tyrants tremble ; but 1, who am what St Simon 
pretends to be, the most débonnaire man since Louis le 
Débonnaire, what have I to fear ?” 

“ Oh, mon Dieu ! nothing, my dear son,” said the palatine, 


THE CONSUL DUILIUS, 


171 

taking the hand of the prince, and looking at him with as 
much maternal tenderness as her little eyes were capable of 
expressing, “nothing, if every one knew you as well as I do, 
and saw you so truly good that you cannot hate even your 
enemies ; but Henry IV., whom unluckily you resemble a 
little too much on certain points, was as good, and that did 
not prevent the existence of a Ravaillac. Alas ! mein Gott,” 
continued the princess, mixing up French and German in her 
agitation, “ it is always the best kings that they do assas- 
sinate ; tyrants take precautions, and the poniard never 
reaches them. You must never go out without a guard ; 
it is you, and not I, my son, who require a regiment of 
soldiers.” 

“My mother,” answered the regent, will you listen to a 
story ?” 

“Yes, certainly, for you relate them exquisitely. 

“ Well, you know that there was in Rome, 1 forget in what 
precise year of the republic, a very brave consul, who had the 
misfortune, shared by Henry IV, and myself, of going out of 
a night. It happened that this consul was sent against the 
Carthaginians, and having invented an implement of war 
called a crow, he gained the first naval battle in which the 
Romans had been victors, so that when he returned to Rome, 
congratulating himself beforehand, no doubt, on the increase 
of fortune which would follow his increase of reputation, he 
was not deceived ; all the population awaited him at the 
city gates, and conducted him in triumph to the capitol, where 
the senate expected him. 

“ The senate announced to him that, in reward for his 
victory, they were going to bestow on him something which 
must be highly pleasing to him, which was, that whenever he 
went out he should be preceded by a musician, who should 
announce to every one, by playing on the flute, that he wa-s 
followed by the famous Duilius, the conqueror of the Cartha- 
ginians. Duilius, you will understand, my mother, was at 
the height of joy at such an honour. He returned home 
with a proud bearing, and preceded by his flute-player, who 
played his best, amidst the acclamations of the multitude, 
who cried at the top of their voices, ‘Long live, Duilius; long 
live the conqueror of the Carthaginians ; long live the saviour 


17a 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


of Rome !* This was so intoxicating that the poor consul 
nearly went crazy with joy. Twice during the day he went 
out, although he had nothing to do in the town, only to 
enjoy the senatorial privilege, and to hear the triumphal 
music and the cries which accompanied it This occupation 
had raised him by the evening into a state of glorification 
such as it is not easy to explain. The evening came. The 
conqueror had a mistress whom he loved, and whom he was 
eager to see again — a sort of Madame de Sabran — with the 
exception that the husband thought proper to be jealous, 
while ours, as you know, is not so absurd. 

The consul therefore had his bath, dressed and perfumed 
himself with the greatest care, and when eleven o’clock 
arrived he set out on tiptoe for the Suburranian Road. But 
he had reckoned without his host ; or, rather, without his 
musician. Hardly had he gone four steps when the flute- 
player, who was attached to his service by night as well as 
day, darted from a post on which he was seated and went 
before, playing with all his might and main. The consequence 
of this was, that those who were in the streets turned round, 
those who were at home came to the door, and those who 
were in bed got up and opened their windows, all repeating 
in chorus — * Here is the Consul Duilius ; long live Duilius ; 
long live the conqueror of the Carthaginians ; long live the 
saviour of Rome !’ This was highly flattering, but inop* 
portune. The consul wished to silence his instrumentalist, 
but he declared that the orders he had received from the 
senate were precise — not to be quiet a minute — that he had 
ten thousand sesterces a year to blow his flute, and that blow 
he would as long as he had any breath left 

“ The consul saw that it was useless to discuss with a man 
who had the dictate of the senate on his side, so he began to 
run, hoping to escape from his melodious companion, but he 
copied his actions from those of Duilius with such exactitude, 
that all the consul could gain was to get before the flute- 
player instead of behind him. He doubled like a hare, 
sprang like a roebuck, rushed madly forward like a wild boar 
— -the cursed flute-player did not lose his track for an instant, 
so that all Rome, understanding nothing about the object of 
this nocturnal race, but knowing that it was the victor who 


THE CONSUL DU I LIUS, 


173 


performed it, came to their windows, shouting, ‘Long live 
Duilius ; long live the conqueror of the Carthaginians ; long 
live the saviour of Rome !’ The poor man had one last 
hope ; that of finding the people at his mistress’ house asleep, 
and the door half-open, as she had promised to leave it. 
But no ; as soon as he arrived at that hospitable and gracious 
house, at whose door he had so often poured perfumes and 
hung garlands, he found that they were awake like all the 
rest, and at the window he saw the husband, who, as soon as 
he saw him, began to cry, ‘ Long live, Duilius ; long live the 
conqueror of the Carthaginians; long live the saviour of 
Rome !’ The hero returned home despairing. 

“ The next day he hoped to escape his musician ; but this 
hope was fallacious ; and it was the same the day after, and 
all following days, so that the consul, seeing that it was im- 
possible to keep his incognito, left for Sicily, where, out of 
anger, he beat the Carthaginians again ; but this time so un- 
mercifully, that every one thought that must be the end of all 
Punic wars, past, present, or to come. Rome was so con- 
vulsed with joy that it gave public rejoicings like those on 
the anniversary of the foundation of the city, and proposed to 
give the conqueror a triumph more splendid even than the 
last. As to the senate, it assembled before the arrival of 
Duilius, to determine what rew'ard should be conferred upon 
him. They were all in favour of a public statue, when sud- 
denly they heard shouts of triumph and the sound of a fliili. 
It was the consul, who had freed himself from the triumph, 
thanks to his haste, but who could not free himself from 
public gratitude, thanks to his flute-player. Suspecting that 
they were preparing something new, he came to take part in 
the deliberations. He found the senate ready to vote, with 
their balls in their hands. 

“He advanced to the tribune. ‘Conscript fathers,* said 
he, ‘ is it not your intention to give me a reward wTich will 
be agreeable to me?’ ‘ Our intention,’ replied the presiderit, 

‘ is to make you the happiest man on earth.’ ‘ Good,’ said 
Duilius ; ‘ will you allow me to ask from you that which I 
desire most?’ ‘ Speak,’ cried all the senators at once.^ ‘ And 
you will confer it on me ?’ asked he, w’ith all the timidity of 
doubt. ‘ By Jupiter we will !’ answered the president in the 


174 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


'nani3 of the assembly. * Then, Conscript fathers,* said Dui- 
Jiu3, ‘ if you think, that I have deserved well of the country, 
take away from me, in recompense for this second victory, 
this cursed flute-player, whom you gave me for the first.’ 
The senate thought the request strange, but they had pledged 
their word, and at that period people kept their promises. 
The flute-player was allowed to retire on half-pay, and the 
Consul Dailius, having got rid of his musician, recovered his 
incognito, and, without noise, found the door of that little 
house in the Suburranian Road, which one victory had closed 
against him, and which another had reopened.” 

‘‘ Well,” asked the palatine, “ what has this story to do with 
the fear I have of your being assassinated ?” 

“ What has it to do with it, my mother ?” said the prince, 
laughing. “ It is, that if, instead of the one musician which 
the Consul Dailius had, and which caused him such disap- 
pointment, I had a regiment of guards, you may fancy what 
would happen to me.” 

“Ah ! Philippe, Philippe,” answered the princess, laughing 
and sighing at the same time, “ will you always treat serious 
matters so lightly !” 

“ No, mother,” said the regent ; “ and the proof is, that as 
I presume you did not come here solely to read me a lecture 
on my nocturnal courses, but to speak on business, I am 
ready to listen to you, and to reply seriously.” 

“Yes, you are right,” said the princess; “I did come to 
speak to you of other things. I came to speak of Mademoi- 
selle de Chartres.” 

“ Yes, of your favourite, mother ; for it is useless to deny 
it, Louise is your favourite. Can it be because she does not 
love her uncles much, whom you do not love at all ?” 

“ No, it is not that, but I confess it is pleasing to me to see 
that she has no better opinion of bastards than I have ; but 
it is because, e.Kcept as to beauty, which she has and I never 
had, she is exactly what I was at her age, having true boy’s 
tastes, loving dogs, horses, and cavalcades, managing powder 
like an artilleryman, and making squibs like a workman; 
well, guess what has happened to her.” 

“ She wants a commission in the guards ?” 

“ No, no ; she wants to be a nun.” 


THE CONSUL DUJLIUS, 175 

•*A nun ! Louise ! Impossible; it must be some joke of 
her sisters !” 

“ Not at all,” replied the palatine ; “ there is no joke about 
it, I swear to you.” 

“ How has she got this passion for the cloister ?” asked the 
regent, beginning to believe in the truth of what his mothe 
told him, accustomed as he was to live at a time when the 
most extravagant things w^ere always the most probable. 

“Where did she get it ?” replied madame ; “ why, frcm the 
devil, I suppose ; I do not know where else she could have 
got it. The day before yesterday she passed with her sister, 
riding, shooting, laughing; in fact, I had never seen her so 
gay ; but this evening Madame d’Orleans sent for me. I 
found Mademoiselle de Chartres at her mother’s knees, in 
tears, and begging permission to retire to the Abbey d(s 
Chelles. Her mother turned to me, and said, ‘What do 
you think of this, madame ?’ ‘ I think,’ I replied, ‘ that we 
can perform our devotions equally well in any place, and that 
all depends on our own pre parations ;’ but hearing my words. 
Mademoiselle de Chartres redoubled her prayers, and with 
so much earnestness, that I said to her mother, ‘It is for you 
to decide.’ ‘ Oh,’ replied the duchess, ‘ we cannot prevent 
this poor child from performing her devotions.’ ‘ Let her 
go then,’ I replied, ‘ and may God grant that she goes in that 
intention.’ ‘ I sw^ear to you, madame,’ said Mademoiselle de 
Chartres, ‘ that I go for God alone, and that I am influence d 
by no worldly idea.’ Then she embraced us, and yesterday 
morning at seven o’clock she set out.” 

“ I know all that, since I was to have taken her there,” 
replied the regent. “ Has nothing happened since then ?” 

“ Yes, yesterday evening she sent back the carriage, giving 
the coachman a letter addressed to you, to her mother, and 
to me, in which she says that finding in the cloister that 
tranquillity and peace which she cannot hope for in the w orld, 
she does not wish to leave it.” 

“ And wLat does her mother say to this resolution ?” 

“ Her mother !” replied madame. “ To tell you the tiuth, 
I believe her mother is very glad, for she likes convents, and 
thinks it a great piece of good-luck to have a daughter anun ; 
but I say there is no happiness where there is novocation.” 


176 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


The regent read and re-read the letter of Mademoiselle de 
Chartres, trying to discover, by the expression of her desire 
to remain at Chelles, the secret causes which had given rise 
to it. Then, after an instant of meditation, as deep as if the 
fate of empires depended on it : 

“ There is some love pique here,’' said he \ “ do you know 
if Louise loves any one ?” 

Madame told the regent the adventure of the opera, and 
the exclamation of the princess, in her admiration for the 
handsome tenor. 

“ Diable !” cried the regent, “ and what did you and the 
Duchesse d’Orleans do in your maternal council ?” 

“ We showed Cauchereau the door, and forbade the opera 
to Mademoiselle de Chartres ; we could not do less.” 

“ Well !” replied the regent, “ there is no need to seek 
further. We must cure her at once of this fancy.” 

‘‘ And how will you do that, my son ?” 

“ I will go to-day to the Abbey des Chelles, and interrogate 
Louise. If the thing is but a caprice, I will give it time to 
pass off. I will appear to adopt her views, and, in a year 
hence, when she is to take the veil, she herself will come and 
beg us to free her from the difficulty she has got herself into. 
If, on the contrary, the thing is serious, then it will be 
different.” 

“ Mon Dieu !” said madame, rising, “ remember that poor 
Cauchereau has, perhaps, nothing to do with it, and that he 
is even ignorant of the passion he has inspired.” 

“ Do not be afraid,” replied the prince, laughing at the 
tragic interpretation which the princess, with her German 
ideas, had given to his words. “ I shall not renew the lament- 
able history of the lovers of the Paraclete ; Cauchereau’s 
voice shall neither lose nor gain a single note in this adven- 
ture, and we do not treat a princess of the blood in the same 
manner as a little bourgeoise.” 

“ But, on the other hand,” said madame, almost as much 
afraid of the regent’s real indulgence as of his apparent 
severity, “no weakness either.” 

“ My mother,” said the regent, “ if she must deceive some 
one, I would rather that it was her husband than God.” And 
kissing his mother’s hand espectfully, he led her to Che 


THE CONSUL DUILIUS. ,77 

door, quite scandalized at those easy manners, among which 
she died, without ever having accustomed herself to them. 
Then the Due d’Orleans returned to his drawing, humming 
an air from his opera of Porthee. 

In crossing the ante-chamber, madame saw a little man in 
great riding boots coming towards her, his head sunk in the 
immense collar of a coat lined with fur. When he reached ' 
her he poked out of his surtout a little face with a pointed 
nose, and bearing a resemblance at once to a polecat and 
a fox. 

“ Oh !’^ said the palatine, “ is it you, abbé ?’* 

“Myself, your highness. I have just saved France — 
nothing but that.” And bowing to madame, without waiting 
for her to dismiss him, as etiquette required, he turned on 
his heel, and entered the regent’s study without being 
announced 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE ABBE DUBOIS. 

All the world knows the commencement of the Abbé Du- 
bois. We will not enlarge on the history of his youth, which 
may be found in the memoirs of the time, and particularly 
in those of the implacable Saint-Simon. Dubois has not 
been calumniated — it was impossible; but all the evil has 
been told of him, and not quite all the good. 

There was in his antecedents, and in those of Alberoni, his 
rival, a great resemblance, but the genius was on the side of 
Dubois ; and in the long struggle with Spain, which the 
nature of our subject does not allow us to do more than indi- 
cate, all the advantage was with the son of the apothecary 
over the son of the gardener. Dubois preceded Figaro, to 
whom he probably served as type ; but, more fortunate than 
he, he passed from the office to the drawing-room, and from 
the drawing-room to the court. All these successive advan- 
tages were the rewards of various services, private or public. 

12 


178 


THE CONSFIRATORS, 


Ilis last negotiation was his chef-d’œuvre ; it was more 
than the ratification of the treaty of Utrecht ; it was a treaty 
more advantageous still for France. The emperor not only 
renounced all right to the crown of Spain, as Philip V. had 
renounced all his to the crown of France, but he entered, 
with England and Holland, into a league, formed at once 
against Spain on the south, and against Sweden and Russia 
on the north. The division of the five or six great states of 
Europe was established by this treaty on so solid and just a 
basis that, after a hundred years of wars and revolutions, all 
these states, except the empire, remain in the same situation 
that they then were. 

On his part, the regent, not very particular by nature, loved 
this man, who had educated him, and whose fortune he had 
made. The regent appreciated in Dubois the talents he had, 
and was not too severe on the vices from which he was not 
exempt. There was, however, between the regent and Dubois 
an abyss. The regent’s vices and virtues were those of a 
gentleman, Dubois’ those of a lackey. In vain the regent 
said to him, at each new favour that he granted, “ Dubois, 
take care, it is only a livery-coat that I am putting on your 
back.” Dubois, who cared about the gift, and not about the 
manner in which it was given, replied, with that apish grimace 
which belonged to him, “ I am your valet, monseigneur, dress 
me always the same.”. 

Dubois, however, loved the regent, and was devoted to 
him. He felt that this powerful hand alone had raised him 
from the sink in which he had been found, and to which, 
hated and despised as he was by all, a sign from the master 
might restore him. He watched with a personal interest the 
hatreds and plots which might reach the prince ; and more 
than once, by the aid of a police often better managed than 
that of the lieutenant-general, and which extended, by means 
of Madame de Tencin, into the highest aristocracy, and, by 
means of La Fillon to the lowest grades of society, he had 
defeated conspiracies of which Messire Yoyer d’Argenson had 
not even heard a whisper. 

Therefore the regent, who appreciated the services which 
Dubois had rendered him, and could still render him, re- 
ceived the ambassador with open arms. As soon as he saw 


THE ABBE DUBOIS, 


179 


him appear, he rose, and, contrary to the custom of most 
princes, who depreciate the service in order to diminish the 
leward, — 

“ Dubois,” said he, joyously, ‘‘you are my best friend, and 
the treaty of the quadruple alliance will be more profitable 
to King Louis XV. than all the victories of his ancestor, 
Louis XIV.” 

“ Bravo !” said Dubois, “ you do me justice, monseigneur, 
but, unluckily, every one is not equally grateful.” 

“ Ah ! ah !” said the regent, “ have you met my mother ? 
She has just left the room.” 

“And how is his majesty?” asked Dubois, with a smile 
full of a detestable hope. “ He was very poorly when 1 left.” 

“Well, abbé, very well,” answered the prince, gravely. 
“ God will preserve him to us, I hope, for the happiness of 
France, and the shame of our calumniators.” 

“ And monseigneur sees him every day as usual ?” 

“ I saw him yesterday, and I even spoke to him of you.” 

“ Bah ! and what did you tell him ?” 

“ I told him that in all probability you had just secured 
the tranquillity of his reign.” 

“ And what did the king answer ?” 

“ What did he answer ! He answered, my friend, that he 
did not think abbés were so useful.” 

“ His majesty is very witty ; and old Villeroy was there, 
without doubt ?” 

“ As he always is.” 

“ With your permission, I must send that old fellow to 
look for me at the other end of France some fine morning. 
His insolence to you begins to tire my patience.” 

“ Leave him alone, Dubois, leave him alone, everything 
will come in time.” 

“Even my archbishopric.” 

“ Ha ! What is this new folly ?” 

“ New folly, monseigneur ! on my honour nothing can be 
more serious.” 

“ Oh ! this letter from the King of England, which asks 
me for an archbishopric for you ” 

“ Did your highness not recognise the style ?” 

“ You dictated it, you rascal I” 


12 — 2 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


fSo 

“To Néricauît Destouches, who got the king to sign it* 

“ And the king signed it as it is, without saying anything ?” 

“Exactly. ‘You wish,^ said he to our poet, ‘that a 
Protestant prince should interfere to make an archbishop in 
France. The regent will read my recommendation, will 
laugh at it, and pay no attention to it.’ ‘ Yes, yes, sire,’ 
replied Destouches, who has more wit than he puts into his 
verses, ‘ the regent will laugh at it, but after all will do what 
your majesty asks.’ ” 

“ Destouches lied.” 

“ Destouches never spoke more truly, monseigneur,” 

“ You an archbishop ! King George would deserve that, 
in return, I should point out to him some rascal like you for 
the archbishopric of York when it becomes vacant” 

“ I defy you to find my equal — I know but one man.” 

“ And who is he ? I should like to know him. ’ 

“Oh, it is useless, he is already placed, and, as his place 
is good, he would not change it for all the archbishoprics in 
the world.” 

“ Insolent !” 

“ With whom are you angry, monseigneur ?” 

“ With a fellow who wants to be an archbishop, and who 
has never yet officiated at the communion table.” 

“ I shall be all the better prepared.” 

“But the archdeaconship, the deaconship, the priest- 
hood.” 

“ Bah t We will find somebody ; some second Jean des 
Entomeures, who will despatch all that in an hour.” 

“ I defy you to find him.” 

“ It is already done.” 

“ And who is that ?” 

“ Your first almoner, the Bishop of Nantes, Tressan.” 

*• The fellow has an answer for everything. — But your 
marriage ?” 

“ My marriage !” 

“Yes, Madame Dubois.” 

“ Madame Dubois ! Who is that ?” 

“ What, fellow, have you assassinated her ?” 

“ Monseigneur forgets that it is only three days since he 
gave her her quarter’s pension.” 


THE ABBE DUBOIS. 


1^1 


**And if she should oppose your archbishopric?* 

“ I defy her \ she has no proofs.” 

“ She may get a copy of the marriage certificate ” 

“ There is no copy without an original” 

“And the original ?” 

“ Here it is,” said Dubois, drawing from his pocket a little 
paper, containing a pinch of ashes. 

What ! and are you not afraid that I shall send you to 
the galleys ?” 

If you wish to do so, now is the time, for I hear the 
lieutenant of police speaking in the ante-chamber,” 

Who sent for him ?” 

“I did.” 

“What for?” 

“To find fault with him.* 

“ For what reason ?” 

“ You will hear. It is understood then — I am an arch- 
bishop.” 

“ And have you already chosen your archbishopric ?* 
“Yes, I take Cambray.” 

“ Peste ! you are not modest* 

“ Ob, mon Dieu ! it is not for the profit, it is for the 
honour of succeeding Fénélon.” 

“ Shall we have a new Telemachus?” 

“ Yes, if your highness will find me a Penelope in the 
kingdom.” 

“ Apropos of Penelope, you know that Madame de 

Sabran ” 

“ I know all.” 

Ah, abbé ; your police, then, is as good as everl * 

“ You shall judge.” 

Dubois stretched out his hand, rang the bell,, and a mes- 
senger appeared. 

“ Send the lieutenant-general,” said Dubois. 

“ But, abbé, it seems to me that it is you who give orders 
here now.” 

“ It is for your good, monseigneur. — Let me do it” 

“ Well, well !” said the regent, “one must be indulgent to 
new comers.” 

Messire Voyer d’Argenson entered — he was as ugly as 


1^2 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


Dubois, but his ugliness was of a very different kind. He 
was tall, thick, and heavy; wore an immense wig, had great 
bushy eyebrows, and was invariably taken for the devil by 
children who saw him for the first time. But with all this, he 
was supple, active, skilful, intriguing, and fulfilled his office 
conscientiously, when he was not turned from his nocturnal 
duties by other occupations. 

“ Messire d’Argenson,” said Dubois, without even leaving 
the lieutenant-general time to finish his bow, “ monseigneur, 
who has no secrets from me, has sent for you, that you may 
tell me in what costume he went out last night, in whose 
house he passed the evening, and what happened to him on 
leaving it. I should not need to ask these questions if I 
had not just arrived from London ; you understand, that as 
I travelled post from Calais, I can know nothing of them,” 

“ But,” said D’Argenson, who thought these questions con- 
cealed some snare, “ did anything extraordinary happen last 
evening ? I confess I received no report ; I hope no acci- 
dent happened to monseigneur?” 

“ Oh, no, none ; only monseigneur, who went out at 
eight o’clock in the evening, as a French guard, to sup with 
Madame de Sabran, was nearly carried off on leaving her 
house.” 

“ Carried off !” cried D’Argenson, turning pale, while the 
regent could not restrain a cry of astonishment, “ carried off ! 
and by whom?” 

“ Ah !” said Dubois, “ that is what we do not know, and 
what you ought to know, Messire d’Argenson, if you had 
not passed your time at the convent of the Madeleine de 
Traisnel.” 

“ What, D’Argenson ! you, a great magistrate, give such 
an example !” said the regent, laughing. “ Never mind, I 
will receive you well, if you come, as you have already done 
in the time of the late king, to bring me, at the end of the 
year, a journal of my acts.” 

“ Monseigneur,” said the lieutenant, stammering, “ I hope 
your highness does not believe a word of what the Abbé 
Dubois says.” 

“What! instead of being humiliated by your ignorance, 
you give me the lie. Monseigneur, I will take you to 


THE ABBE DUBOIS, 


183 

D’Argenson’s seraglio ; an abbess of twenty-six, and novices 
of fifteen ; a boudoir in India chintz, and cells hung with 
tapestry. Oh, Monsieur le Lieutenant de Police knows how 
to do things well” 

The regent held his sides with laughing, seeing D’Argen- 
son's disturbed face. 

“ But,” replied the lieutenant of police, trying to bring 
back the conversation to the less disagreeable, though more 
humiliating subject, ‘‘there is not much merit, abbé, in your 
knowing the details of an event, which, doubtless, monseig- 
neur himsefftold you.” 

“ On my honour,” said the regent, “ I did not tell him a 
single word.” 

“ Listen, lieutenant ; is it monseigneur also who told me 
the story of the novice of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, whom 
you so nearly carried off over the convent walls ? Is it 
monseigneur who told me of that house which you have had 
built under a false name, against the wall of the convent of 
the Madeleine, so that you can enter at all hours by a door 
hidden in a closet, and which opens on to the sacristy of the 
chapel of Saint Mark, your patron? No, no, all that, my 
dear lieutenant, is the infancy of the art, and he who only 
knew this, would not, I hope, be worthy to hold a candle 
to you.” 

“ Listen, abbé,” replied the lieutenant of police with a 
grave air, “if all you have told me about monseigneur is true, 
the thing is serious, and I am in the wrong not to know it, 
if any one does — but there is no time lost. We will find the 
culprits, and punish them as they deserve.” 

“ But,” said the regent, “ you must not attach too much 
importance to this ; they were, probably, some drunken 
officers who wished to amuse their companions.” 

“It is a conspiracy, monseigneur,” replied Dubois, “ which 
emanates from the Spanish embassy, passing through the 
Arsenal before it arrives at the Palais Royal.” 

“ Again, Dubois ?” 

“Always, monseigneur.” 

“ And you, D’Argenson, what is your opinion ?'* 

“ That your enemies are capable of anything, monseigneur; 
but that we will mar their plots, whatever they may be, I give 
you my word.” 


184 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


At this moment the door opened, and the Due de Maine 
was announced, who came to attend the council, and whose 
privilege it was, as prince of the blood, not to be kept waiting. 
He advanced with that timid and uneasy air which was 
natural to him, casting a side-glance over the three persons 
in whose presence he found himself, as though to discover 
what subject occupied them at his entrance. The regent 
understood his thought 

“ Welcome, my cousin,” said he; “ these two bad fellows — 
whom you know — have just been assuring me that you are 
conspiring against me.” 

The Due de Maine turned as pale as death, and was 
obliged to lean for support on the crutch-shaped stick which 
he carried. 

“ And I hope, monseigneur,” replied he, in a voice which 
he vainly endeavoured to render firm, “ that you did not give 
ear to such a calumny.” 

Oh, mon Dieu ! no !” replied the aegent negligently ; 
“ but they are obstinate, and declare that they will take you 
one day in the fact I do not believe it, but at any rate I 
give you warning ; be on your guard against them, for they 
are clever fellows, I warrant you.” 

The Due de Maine opened his mouth to give some con- 
temptible excuse, when the door opened again, and the 
groom announced successively the Due de Bourbon, the 
Prince de Conti, the Due de St. Simon, the Due de Guiche, 
captain of the guards ; the Due Noailles, president of the 
council of finance ; the Due d’Antin, superintendent of ships ; 
the Marshal d’Uxelles, president of the council of foreign 
affairs; the Archbishop of Troyes; the Marquis de Lavrillière; 
the Marquis d’Effiat ; the Due de Laforce ; the Marquis de 
Torcy ; and the Marshals de Villeroy, d’Estrées, de Villars, 
and de Bezons. 

As these grave personages were gathered together to de- 
liberate upon the treaty of the quadruple alliance, brought 
from London by Dubois, and as the treaty of the quadruple 
alliance only figures secondarily in this history, our readers 
will excuse our leaving the sumptuous reception-room in the 
Palais Royal, to lead them back to the attic in the Rue du 
Temps-Perdu. 


TUE CONSPIRACY. 


I35 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE CONSPIRACY. 

D’Harmental, after having placed his hat and cloak on a 
chair, after having placed his pistols on his table, and his 
sword under his pillow, threw himself dressed on to his bed, 
and, more happy than Damocles, he slept, though, like 
Damocles, a sword hung over his head by a thread. 

When he awoke it was broad daylight, and as the evening 
before he had forgotten to close his shutters, the first thing he 
saw was a ray of sunshine playing joyously across his room. 
D’Harmental thought that he had been dreaming, when he 
found himself again calm and tranquil in his little room, so 
neat and clean, whilst he might have been at that hour in 
some gloomy and sombre prison. For a moment he doubted 
of its reality, remembering all that had passed the evening 
before ; but all was there — the red ribbon, the hat and cloak 
on the chair, the pistols on the table, and the sword under 
the pillow ; and, as a last proof, he himself in the costume 
of the day before, which he had not taken off, for fear of 
being surprised by some nocturnal visit. 

D’Harmental jumped from his bed. His first look was for 
his neighbour’s window : it was already open, and he saw 
Bathilde passing and repassing in her room ; the second was 
for his glass, which told him that conspiracies suited him — 
indeed, his face was paler than usual, and therefore more 
interesting ; his eyes w’ere rather feverish, and therefore more 
expressive : so that it was evident that, when he had smoothed 
his hair and arranged his collar and cravat, he would be a 
most interesting person to Bathilde. D’Harmental did not 
say this, even to himself ; but the bad instinct which always 
impels our poor souls to evil whispered these thoughts to 
him, so that when he went to his toilette he suited his dress 
to the expression of his face — that is to say, that he dressed 
entirely in black, that his hair was arranged with a charming 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


l?6 

negligence, and that he left his waistcoat more than usually 
open, to give place to his shirt-frill, which fell with an ease 
full of coquetry. All this was done in the most pre-occupied 
and careless manner in the world ; for D’Harmental, brave 
as he was, could not help remembering that at any minute he 
might be arrested ; but it was by instinct that, when the 
chevalier gave the last look in the glass, before leaving his 
little dressing-room, he smiled at himself with a melancholy 
which doubled the charm of his countenance. There was no 
mistake as to the meaning of this smile, for he went directly 
to the window. 

Perhaps Bathilde had also her projects for the moment 
when her neighbour should reappear, perhaps she had arranged 
a defence which should consist in not looking towards him, 
or in closing her window after a simple recognition ; but at the 
noise her neighbour’s window made in opening, all was for- 
gotten, and she ran to the window, crying out : 

“ Ah ! there you are. Mon Dieu ! monsieur, how anxious 
you have made me !” 

This exclamation was ten times more than D’Harmental 
had hoped for. If he, on his part, had prepared some well- 
turned and eloquent phrases, they were all forgotten, and 
clasping his hands : 

Bathilde ! Bathilde !” he cried, ** vou are, then, as good 
as you are beautiful !” 

“ Why good ?” asked Bathilde. “ Did you not tell me that 
if I was an orphan, you also were without parents ? Did you 
not say that I was your sister, and you were my brother ?” 

“ Then, Bathilde, you prayed for me ?” 

“All night,” replied the young girl, blushing. 

“ And I thanked chance for having saved me, when I owed 
all to an angel’s prayers !” 

“ The danger is then past ?” cried Bathilde. 

“ The night was dark and gloomy,” replied D’Harmenta). 
“ This morning, however, I was awakened by a ray of sun- 
shine which a cloud may again conceal : so it is with the 
danger I have run ; it has passed to give place to a great 
happiness — that of knowing you have thought of me, yet it 
may return. But stay,” continued he, hearing steps on the 
«taircase, “ there it is, perhaps, approaching my door.” 


THE CONSPIRACY. 187 

As he spoke, someone knocked three times at the chevalier’s 
door. 

“ Who is there ?” asked D’Harmental from the window, 
in a voice which, in spite of all his firmness, betrayed some 
emotion. 

\ “A friend,” answered a voice. 

^ “ Well ?” asked Bathilde, with anxiety. 

“ Thanks to you, God still continues to protect me : it is 
a friend who knocks. Once again, thanks, Bathilde.” And 
the chevalier closed his window, sending the young girl a last 
salute which was very like a kiss ; then he opened to the 
Abbé Brigand, who, beginning to be impatient, had knocked 
a second time. 

“ Well,” said the abbé, on whose face it was impossible to 
see the smallest change, “ what has happened, then, my dear 
pupil, that you are shut in thus by bolts and bars ? Is it as a 
foretaste of the Bastille ?” 

“ Holla ! abbé,” said D’Harmental, in a cheerful voice, “ no 
such jokes, I beg; they might bring misfortune.” 

“ But look ! look !” said Brigand, throwing his eyes round 
him, would not any one suppose they were visiting a con- 
spirator ? Pistols on the table, a sw'ord on the pillow, and a hat 
and cloak on the chair. Ah ! my dear pupil, you are dis- 
composed, it appears to me ! Come, put all this in order, that 
I may not be able to perceive, when I pay my paternal visit, 
what passes during my absence.” 

D’Harmental obeyed, admiring, in this man of the Church, 
the sang-froid which he himself found it difficult to attain. 

“Very good,” said Brigand, watching him, “and this 
shoulder-knot which you have forgotten, and which was never 
made for you (for it dates from the time when you were in 
jackets), put it away too ; who know^s ? — you may want it.” 

“ And what for, abbé ?” asked D’Harmental, laughing ; 
** to attend the regent’s levée in ?” 

“ Oh, no, but for a signal to some good fellow who is 
passing ; come, put it away.” 

“ My dear abbé,” said D’Harmental, “ if you are not the 
devil in person, you are at least one of his most intimate 
acquaintances.” 

“ Oh, no 1 I am a poor fellow who goes his own quiet w’ay, 


i88 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


and who, as he goes, looks high and low, right and left, tha* 
is all. Look, there is a ray of spring, the first, which knock* 
humbly at your window, and you do not open it ; one would 
suppose you were afraid of being seen. Ah, pardon ! I did 
not know that, when your window opened, another must 
close.” 

“ My dear abbé, you are full of wit,” replied D’Harmental, 
but terribly indiscreet ; so much so, that, if you were a 
musketeer instead of an abbé, I should quarrel with you.” 

“ And why ? Because I wish to open you a path to glory, 
fortune, and, perhaps, love ? It would be monstrous ingrati- 
tude.” 

“ Well, let us be friends, abbé,” said D’Harmental, offering 
his hand, “ and I shall not be sorry to have some news.” 

“ Of what?” 

“How do I know ? Of the Rue des Bons Enfants, where 
there has been a great deal going on, I believe ; of the Arsenal, 
where, I believe, Madame de Maine has given a soirée ; and 
even of the regent, who, if I may believe a dream I had, came 
back to the Palais Royal very late and rather agitated.” 

“ All has gone well The noise of the Rue des Bons En- 
fants, if there were any, is quite calm this morning ; Madame 
de Maine has as much gratitude for those whom important 
affairs kept away from the Arsenal as she has contempt for 
those who were there ; finally, the regent, dreaming last night, 
as usual, that he was King of France, has already forgotten 
that he was nearly the prisoner of the King of Spain. Now 
we must begin again.” 

“ Ah, pardon, abbé,” said D’Harmental ; “ but, with your 
permission, it is the turn of the others. I shall not be sorry 
to rest a little, myself.” 

“ Ah, that goes badly with the news I bring you.” 

“What news?” 

“ It was decided last night that you should leave for Brit- 
tany this morning.” 

“ For Brittany ! — and what to do there ?” 

“ You will know when you are there.” 

“ And if I do not wish to go ?” 

“You will reflect, and go just the same.” 

“ And on what shall I reflect ?” 


THE CONSPIRACY, 


189 

“ That it would be the act of a madman to interrupt an 
enterprise near its end for a love only at its beginning. To 
abandon the interests of a princess of the blood to gain the 
good graces of a grisette.” 

“ Abbé !” said D’Harmental. 

“ Oh, we must not get angry, my dear chevalier ; we must 
reason ! You engaged voluntarily in the affair we have in 
hand, and you promised to aid us in it. Would it be loyal 
to abandon us now for a repulse ? No, no, my dear pupil ; 
you must have a little more connection in your ideas if you 
mix in a conspiracy.” 

“ It is just because I have connection in my ideas,” replied 
D’Harmental, “ that this time, as at first, before undertaking 
anything new, I wish to know what it is. I offered myself 
to be the arm, it is true ; but, before striking, the arm must 
know what the head has decided. I risk my liberty. I risk 
my life. I risk something perhaps dearer to me still I wall 
risk all this in my own manner, with my eyes open, and not 
closed. Tell me first what I am to do in Brittany, and then 
perhaps I will go there.” 

‘‘ Your orders are that you should go to Rennes. There 
you will unseal this letter, and find your instructions.” 

“ My orders ! my instructions !” 

“Are not these the terms which a general uses to his 
officers ? And are they in the habit of disputing the com- 
mands they receive ?” 

“Not when they are in tne service ; but you know I am in 
it no longer.” 

“ It is true. I forgot to tell you that you haa re-entered it.” 

“ I !” 

“ Yes, you. I have your brevet in my pocket.” And 
Brigand drew from his pocket a parchment,, which he pre- 
sented to D’Harmental, who unfolded it slowly, questioning 
Brigand with his looks. 

“ A brevet !” cried the chevalier ; “ a brevet as colonel in 
one of the four regiments of carabineers I Whence comes 
this brevet ?” 

“ Look at the signature.” 

“ Louis- Auguste, Due de Maine !” 

“Well, what is there astonishing in that? As grand 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


190 

master of artillery, he has the nomination of twelve regiments. 
He gives you one to replace that which was taken from you, 
and, as your general, he sends you on a mission. Is it cus- 
tomary for soldiers in such a case to refuse the honour their 
chief does them in thinking of them ? I am a churchman, 
and do not know.” 

“ No, no, my dear abbé. It is, on the contrary, the duty 
of every officer of the king to obey his chief.” 

“Besides which,” replied Brigand, negligently, “in case 
the conspiracy failed, you would only have obeyed orders, and 
might throw the whole responsibility of your actions on 
another.” 

“ Abbé !” cried D’Harmental a second time. 

Well, if you do not go, I shall make you feel the spur.” 

“ Yes, I am going. Excuse me, but there are some 
moments when I am half mad. I am now at the orders of 
Monsieur de Maine, or, rather, at those of Madame. May 
I not see her before I go, to fall at her feet, and tell her that 
I am ready to sacrifice my life at a word from her.” 

“There, now, you are going into the opposite extreme; 
but no, you must not die ; you must live — live to triumph 
over our enemies, and wear a beautiful uniform, with which 
you will turn all the women’s heads.” 

“ Oh, my dear Brigaud, there is but one I wish to please.” 

“ Well, you shall please her first, and the others afterwards.” 

“ When must I go ?” 

‘‘This instant.” 

“ You will give me half an hour?” 

“ Not a second.” 

“ But I have not breakfasted.” 

“ You shall come and breakfast with me.” 

“ I have only two or three thousand francs here, and that 
is not enough.” 

“ You will find a year’s pay in your carriage.” 

“ And clothes ?” 

“ Your trunks are full Had I not your measure ? You 
will not be discontented with my tailor.” 

“ But at least, abbé, tell me when I may return.” 

“ In six weeks to a day, the Duchesse de Maine will expect 
you at Sceaux.” 


THE CONSPIRACY, 


191 

“ But at least you will permit me to write a couple of 
lines.” 

‘‘ Well, I will not be too exacting.” 

The chevalier sat down and wrote : 

‘‘ Dear Bathilde, 

“To-day it is more than a danger which threatens ' 
me ; it is a misfortune which overtakes me. I am forced to 
leave this instant, without seeing you, without bidding you 
adieu. I shall be six weeks absent. In the name of Heaven, 
Bathilde, do not forget him who will not pass an hour with- 
out thinking of you. 

“ Raoul.” 

This letter written, folded, and sealed, the chevalier rose 
and went to the window ; but as we have said, that of his 
neighbour was closed when Brigand appeared. There was 
then no means of sending to Bathilde the despatch destined 
for her. D’Harmental made an impatient gesture. At this 
moment they heard a scratching at the door. The abbé 
opened it, and Mirza appeared, guided by her instinct, and 
her greediness, to the giver of the bon-bons, and making 
lively demonstrations of joy. 

“ Well,” said Brigand, “ who shall say God is not good to 
lovers ? You wanted a messenger, and here is one.” 

“ Abbé, abbé,” said D’Harmental, shaking his head, “ do 
not enter into my secrets before I wish it.” 

“ Oh,” replied Brigand, “ a confessor, you know, is an 
abyss.” 

“ Then not a word will pass your lips ?” 

“ On my honour, chevalier.” 

D’Harmental tied the letter to Mirza’s neck, gave her a 
piece of sugar as a reward for the commission she was about 
to accomplish; and, half sad at having lost his beautiful 
neighbour for six weeks, half glad at having regained for ever 
his beautiful uniform, he took his money, put his pistols into 
his pockets, fastened on his sword, took his hat and cloak, 
and followed the Abbé Brigand. 


192 


THE CONSPIRATORS^ 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE ORDER OF THE HONEY-BEE. 

At the appointed day and hour, that is to say, six weeks 
after his departure from the capital, and at four o’clock in the 
afternoon, D’Harmental, returning from Brittany, entered 
th‘ court-yard of the Palace of Sceaux, with his post horses 
going at full gallop. Servants in full livery waited on the 
door-step, and everything announced preparations 'éor a fête. 
D’Harmental entered, crossed the hall, and found himself in 
a large room, where about twenty people were assembled, 
standing in groups talking, whilst waiting for the mistress of 
the house. 

There were, amongst others, the Comte de I.aval, the 
Marquis de Pompadour, the poet St. Genest, the old Abbé 
Chaulieu, St. Aulaire, Madame de Rohan, Madame de 
Croissy, Madame de Charost, and Madame de Brissac. 

D’Harmental went straight to the Marquis de Pompadour, 
the one out of all this noble and intelligent society with whom 
he was best acquainted. They shook hands. Then D’Kar- 
mental, drawing him aside, said : 

“ My dear marquis, can you tell me how it is that where I 
expected to find only a dull political assembly I find prepa- 
rations for a fete ?” 

“ Ma foi ! I do not know, my dear chevalier,” replied 
Pompadour, “ and I am as astonished as you are. I have 
just returned from Normandy myself.” 

“ Ah ! you also have just arrived ?” 

“ This instant I asked the same question of Laval, but he 
has just arrived from Switzerland, and know^s no more than 
we do.” 

At this moment the Baron de Valef was announced. 

“ Ah, pardieu ! now we shall know,” continued Pompa- 
dour. “ Valef is so intimate with the duchess he will be able 
to tell us.” 


THE ORDER OF THE HONEY-BEE, 


m 


Valef, recognising them, came towards them. 

D’Harmental and Valef had not seen each other since the 
day of the duel with which this history opened, so that they 
met with pleasure ; then after exchanging compliments, — 

“My dear Valef,” said D’Harmental, “can you tell me 
what is the meaning of this great assembly, when I expected 
to find only a select committee ?” 

“ Ma foi! I do not know anything of it,” said Valef, “ I 
have just come from Madrid” 

“ Every one has just arrived from somewhere,” said Pom- 
padour, laughing. “ Ah 1 here is Malezieux, I hope he has 
been no further than Dombes or Chatenay ; and as at any 
rate he has certainly passed through Madame de Maine’s 
room we shall have some news at last.” 

At these words Pompadour made a sign to Malezieux, but 
the worthy chancellor was so gallant that he must first acquit 
himself of his duty towards the ladies. After he had bowed 
to them, he came towards the group, amongst which were 
Pompadour, D’Harmental, and Valef. 

“ Come, my dear Malezieux,” said Pompadour, “ we are 
w’aiting for you most impatiently. We have just arrived 
from the four quarters of the globe, it appears. Valef from 
the south, D’Harmental from the west, Laval from the east, 
I from the north, you from I do not know where ; so that we 
confess that we are very curious to know what we are going 
to do here at Sceaux.” 

“ You have come to assist at a great solemnity, at the re- 
ception of a new knight of the order of the honey-bee.” 

“Peste!” said D’Harmental, a little piqued that they 
should not have left him time to go to the Rue du Temps- 
Perdu before coming to Sceaux ; “ I understand now why 
Madame de Maine told us to be so exact to the rendezvous ; 
as to myself, I am very grateful to her highness.” 

“ First of all you must know, young man,” interrupted 
Malezieux, “ that there is no Madame de Maine nor high- 
ness in the question. There is only the beautiful fairy 
Ludovic, the queen of the bees, whom every one must obey 
blindly. Our queen is all-wise and all-powerful, and when 
you know who is the knight we are to receive you will not 
regret your diligence.” 


13 


194 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


“ And who is it ?” asked Valef, who, arriving from the 
greatest distance, was naturally the most anxious to know 
why he had been brought home. 

“ His Excellency the Prince de Cellamare.” 

“ Ah !” said Pompadour, “ I begin to understand.” 

“ And I,” said Valef. 

“ And I,” said D’HarmentaL 

“Very well,” said Malezieux, smiling; “and before the 
end of the evening you will understand still better ; mean- 
while, do not try to see further. It is not the first time you 
have entered with your eyes bandaged, Monsieur d’Har- 
mental ?” 

At these words, Malezieux advanced towards a little man, 
with a flat face, flowing hair, and a discontented expression. 
D’Harmental inquired who it was, and Pompadour replied 
that it was the poet Lagrange-Chancel. The young men 
looked at the new-comer with a curiosity mixed with disgust ; 
then, turning away, and leaving Pompadour to advance to- 
wards the Cardinal de Polignac, w^ho entered at this moment, 
they went into the embrasure of a window to talk over the 
occurrences of the evening. 

The order of the honey-bee had been founded by Madame 
de Maine, apropos of the Italian motto which she had 
adopted at her marriage : “ Little insects inflict large stings.” 

Ti?.is order had, like others, its decorations, its officers, 
and Its grand-master. The decoration was a medal, repre- 
senting on one side a hive, and on the other the queen-bee : 
it was hung by a lemon-coloured ribbon, and was worn by 
every knight whenever he came to Sceaux. The officers 
were Malezieux, St. Aulaire, the Abbé Chaulieu, and St. 
Genest Madame de Maine was grand-master. 

It was composed of thirty-nine members, and could not 
exceed this number. The death of Monsieur de Nevers had 
left a vacancy which was to be filled by the nomination of 
the Prince de Cellamare. The fact was, that Madame de 
Maine had thought it safer to cover this political meeting 
with a frivolous pretext, feeling sure that a fête in the gardens 
at Sceaux would appear less suspicious in the eyes of Dubois 
and Messire Voyer d’Argenson than an assembly at the 
Arsenal. Thus, as will be seen, nothing had been forgotten 
to give its old splendour to the order of the honey-bee. 


THE ORDER OF THE HONEY-BEE. 


»9S 

At four o’clock precisely, the time fixed for the ceremony, 
the doors of the room opened, and they perceived, in a 
saloon hung with crimson satin, spangled with silver bees, 
the beautiful fairy Ludovic seated on a throne raised on three 
steps. She made a gesture with her golden wand, and all 
her court, passing into the saloon, arranged themselves in a 
half circle round her throne, on the steps of which the 
dignitaries of the order placed themselves. 

After the initiation of the Prince de Cellamare as a knight 
•of the honey-bee, a second door was opened, displaying a 
room brilliantly lighted, where a splendid supper was laid. 
'J'he new knight of the order offered his hand to the fairy, 
and conducted her to the supper-room followed by the 
assistants. 

The entertainment was worthy of the occasion, and the 
flow of wit which so peculiarly characterised the epoch was 
well sustained. As the hour began to draw late, the Duchesse 
de Maine rose and announced that having received an ex- 
cellent telescope from the author of “The Worlds,” she 
invited her company to study astronomy in the garden. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

THE QUEEN OF THE GREENLANDERS. 

As might have been expected, new surprises awaited tne» 
guests in the garden. These gardens, designed by Le Notre 
for Colbert, and sold by him to the Due de Maine, had now 
really the appearance of a fairy abode. They were bounded 
only by a large sheet of water, in the midst of which was the 
pavilion of Aurora — so called because from this pavilion was 
generally given the signal that the night was finished, and 
that it was time to retire — and had, with their games of 
tennis, foot-ball, and tilting at the ring, an aspect truly royal. 
Every one was astonished on arriving to find all the old 
trees and graceful paths linked together by garlands of light 
which changed the night into brilliant day. 


I-t — 2 


196 


THE CONSriKATORS. 


At the approach of Madame de Maine a strange party, 
consisting of seven individuals, advanced gravely towards 
her. They were dressed entirely in fur, and wore hairy caps, 
which hid their faces. They had with them a sledge drawn 
by two reindeer, and their deputation was headed by a chief 
wearing a long robe lined with fur, with a cap of fox-skin, on 
which were three tails. This chief, kneeling before Madame 
de Maine, addressed her. 

Madame ! the Greenlanders have chosen me, as one of 
the chief among them, to offer you, on their parts, the sove- 
reignty of their state.” 

This allusion was so evident, and yet so safe, that a mur- 
mur of approbation ran through the whole assembly, and 
the ambassador, visibly encouraged by this reception, con- 
tinued, — 

“ Fame has told us, even in the midst of our snows, in 
our little corner of the world, of the charms, the virtues, and 
the inclinations of your highness. We know that you abhor 
the sun.” 

This allusion was as quickly seized on as the first, for the 
sun was the regent’s device, and as we have said, Madame 
de Maine was well known for her predilection in favour of 
night. 

“ Consequently, madame,” continued the ambassador, “ as 
in our geographical position God has blessed us with six 
months of night and six months of twilight, we come to pro- 
pose to you to take refuge in our land from the sun which 
you so much dislike ; and in recompense for that which you 
leave here, we offer you the title of Queen of the Green- 
landers. We are certain that your presence will cause our 
arid plains to flower, and that the wisdom of your laws will 
conquer our stubborn spirit, and that, thanks to the gentle- 
ness of your reign, we shall renounce a liberty less sweet 
than your rule.” 

• “ But,” said Madame de Maine, “ it seems to me that the 
kingdom you offer me is rather distant, and I confess I do 
not like long voyages.” 

“ We foresaw your reply, madame,” replied the ambassa- 
dor, “ and, thanks to the enchantments of a powerful magi- 
cian, have so arranged, that if you would not go to the 


THE QUEEN OF THE GREEN LANDERS. 


197 


mountain, the mountain should come to you. Hola, genii 1’* 
continued the chief, describing some cabalistic circles in the 
air with his wand, “display the palace of your new sovereign.” 

At this moment some fanciful music was heard ; the veil 
which covered the pavilion of Aurora was raised as if by 
magic, and the water showed the reflection of a light so skil- 
fully placed that it might have been taken for the moon. By 
this light was seen an island of ice at the foot of a snowy 
peak, on which was the palace of the Queen of the Green- 
landers, to which led a bridge so light that it seemed to be 
made of a floating cloud. Then, in the midst of general 
acclamation, the ambassador took from the hands of one of 
his suite a crown, which he placed on the duchess’ head, and 
which she received with as haughty a gesture as though it 
had been a real crown. Then, getting into the sledge, she 
w’ent towards the marine palace ; and, while the guards pre- 
vented the crowd from following her into her new domain, 
she crossed the bridge and entered, with the seven ambassa- 
dors. At the same instant the bridge disappeared, as if, by 
an illusion not less visible than the others, the skilful ma- 
chinist had wished to separate the past from the future, and 
fireworks expressed the joy of the Greenlanders at seeing 
their new sovereign. Meanwhile Madame de Maine w^as in- 
troduced by an usher into the most retired part of the palace, 
and the seven ambassadors having thrown off caps and 
cloaks, she found herself surrounded by the Prince de Cella- 
mare. Cardinal Polignac, the Marquis de Pompadour, the 
Comte de Laval, the Baron de Valef, the Chevalier d'Har- 
mental, and Malezieux. As to the usher, who, after having 
carefully closed all the doors, came and mixed familiarly 
with all this noble assembly, he was no other than our old 
friend the Abbé Brigaud. Things now began to take their 
true form, and the fête, as the ambassadors had done, threw 
off mask and costume, and turned openly to conspiracy. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the duchess, with her habitual vivacity, 
“ we have not an instant to lose, as too long an absence would 
be suspicious. Let every one tell quickly what he has done, 
and we shall know wLat w^e are about.” 

“ Pardon, madame,” said the prince, “ but you had spoken 
to ne, as being one of ourselves, of a man whom I do not 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


198 

see here, and whom I am distressed not to count among our 
numbers ” 

“ You mean the Due de Richelieu ?” replied Madame de 
Maine ; “ it is true he promised to come ; he must have been 
detained by some adventure ; we must do without him.” 

“ Yes, certainly,” replied the prince, “ if he does not come 
we must do without him ; but I confess that I deeply re- 
gret his absence. The regiment which he commands is at 
Bayonne, and for that reason might be very useful to us. 
Give orders, I beg, madame, that if he should come he 
should be admitted directly.” 

“Abbé,” said Madame de Maine, turning to Brigaud, 
** you heard j tell D’Avranches. ” 

The abbé went out to execute this order. 

“Pardon, monsieur,” said D’Harmental to Malezieux, 
“ but I thought six weeks ago that the Due de Richelieu posi- 
tively refused to be one of us.” 

“Yes,” answered Malezieux, “because he knew that he 
was intended to take the cordon bleu to the Prince of the As- 
turias, and he would not quarrel with the regent just when he 
expected the Golden Fleece as the reward of his embassy ; 
but now the regent has changed his mind and deferred send* 
ing the order, so that the Due de Richelieu, seeing his Golden 
Fleece put off till the Greek kalends, has come back to us.” 

“ I have given the order,” said the Abbé Brigaud, returning.' 

“Well,” said the duchess, “now let us go to business. 
Laval, you begin.” 

“ I, madame,” said Laval, “ as you know, have been in 
Switzerland, where, with the King of Spain^s name and 
money, I raised a regiment in the Grisons. This regiment 
is ready to enter France at any moment, armed and equipped,- 
and only waits the order to march.” 

“ Very good, my dear count,” said the duchess ; “ and if 
you do not think it below a Montmorency to be colonel of a 
regiment while waiting for something better, take the com- 
mand of this one. It is a surer way of getting the Golden 
Fleece than taking the Saint Esprit into Spain.” 

“ Madame,” said Laval, “ it is for you to appoint each one 
his place, and whatever you may appoint will be gratefully 
accepted by the most humble of your servants.” 


THE QUEEN OF THE GREENLANDERS, 


199 


“ And you, Pompadour,” said Madame de Maine, thanking 
I. aval by a gesture of the hand, “ what have you done?” 

“According to your highness* instructions,” replied tho 
marquis, “ I went to Normandy, where I got the protestatior 
signed by the nobility. I bring you thirty-eight good signa- 
tures ” (he drew a paper from his pocket). “Here is the request 
to the king, and here the signatures.” 

The duchess snatched the paper so quickly that she almost 
tore it, and throwing her eyes rapidly over it : 

“ Yes, yes,” said she, “ you have done well to put them 
so, without distinction or difference of rank, so that there 
may be no question of precedence. Guillaume-Alexandre 
de Vieux-Pont, Pierre-Anne-Marie de la Pailleterie, De 
Beaufremont, De Latour-Dupin, De Châtillon. Yes, you 
are right ; these are the best and most faithful names in 
France. Thanks, Pompadour ; you are a worthy messenger ; 
your skill shall not be forgotten. And you, chevalier?’* 
continued she, turning to D'Harmental with her irresistible 
smile. 

“ I, madame,” said the chevalier, “ according to your orders 
left for Brittany, and at Nantes I opened my despatches and 
took my instructions.” 

“Well?” asked the duchess quickly. 

“Well, madame,” replied D’Harmental, “ I have been as 
successful as Messieurs de Laval and Pompadour. I have 
the promises of Messieurs De Mont-Louis, De Bonamour, 
De Pont-Callet, and De Rohan Soldue. As soon as Spain, 
shows a squadron in sight of the coasts, Brittany will rise.” 

“ You see, prince,” cried the duchess, addressing Cella- 
mare, with an accent full of ambitious joy, “everything 
favours us.’* 

“Yes,” replied the prince; “but these four gentlemen, 
influential as they are, are not all that we must have. There 
are Laguerche-Saint-Amant, Les Bois-Davy, De Laroche- 
foucault-Gondral, Les Décourt, and Les d’Erée, whom it 
would be important to gain.” 

“ It is done, prince,” said D’Harmental; “here are their 
letters ;” and taking several from his pocket, he opened two or 
three by chance and read their contents. 

“ Well, prince,” cried Madame de Maine, “ what do you 


200 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


think now? Besides these three letters, here is one from 
Lavauguyon, one from Bois-Davy, one from Fumée. Stay, 
chevalier, here is our right hand ; ’tis that which holds the 
pen — let it be a pledge to you that, if ever its signature 
should be royal, it would have nothing to refuse to you.” 

“Thanks, madame,” said D’Harmental, kissing her hand 
respectfully, “ but you have already given me more than I 
deserve, and success itself would recompense me so highly, 
by placing your highness in your proper position, that I 
should have nothing left to desire.” 

“And now, Valef, it is your turn,” continued the duchess; 
“ we kept you till the last, for you were the most important 
If I understood rightly your signs during dinner, you are not 
displeased with their Catholic majesties.” 

“ What would your highness say to a letter written by his 
highness Philippe himself?” ' 

“Oh ! it is more than I ever dared to hope for,” cried 
Madame de Maine. 

“Prince,” said Valef, passing a paper to Cellamare, “you 
know his majesty’s writing. Assure her royal highness, who 
does not dare to believe it, that this is from his own hand.” 

“ It is,” said Cellamare. 

“ And to whom is it addressed ?” asked Madame de Maine, 
taking it from the prince’s hands. 

“To the king, Louis XV., madame,” said the latter. 

“ Good !” said the duchess ; “ we will get it presented by 
the Marshal de Villeroy. Let us see what it says.” And 
she read as rapidly as the writing permitted : 

“The Escurial, i6th March, 1718. 

“ * Since Providence has placed me on the thrcne of Spain, 
I have never for an instant lost sight of the obligations of 
my birth. Louis XIV., of eternal memory, is always present 
to my mind. I seem always to hear that great prince, at the 
moment of our separation, saying to me, ‘ The Pyrenees exist 
no longer.’ Your majesty is the only descendant of my elder 
brother, whose loss I feel daily. God has called you to the 
succession of this great monarchy, whose glory and interests 
will be precious to me till my death. I can never forget 
what I owe to your majesty, to my country, and to the 
memory of my ancestor. 


THE QUEEN OF THE GREENLANDERS, 20I 

‘ My dear Spaniards (who love me tenderly, and who are 
well assured of my love for them, and not jealous of the 
sentiments which I hold for you) are well assured that our 
union is the base of public tranquillity. I flatter myself that 
my personal interests are still dear to a nation which has 
nourished me in its bosom, and that a nobility who has shed 
so much blood to support them will always look with love on 
a king who feels it an honour to be obliged to them, and to 
have been born among them/ 

“ This is addressed to you, gentlemen,” said the duchess, 
interrupting herself ; and, looking round her, she continued, 
impatient to know the rest of the letter : 

“ ‘ What, then, can your faithful subjects think of a treaty 
signed against me, or rather against yourself? 

‘‘ ‘ Since your exhausted finances can no longer support the' 
current expenses of peace, it is desired that you should unite 
with my most mortal enemy, and should make war on me, if 
I do not consent to give up Sicily to the archduke. I will 
never subscribe to these conditions : they are insupportable 
to me. 

“ ‘ I do not enter into the fatal consequences of this 
alliance. I only beg your majesty to convoke the States- 
General directly, to deliberate on an affair of such great 
consequence.’ ” 

“ The States -General !” murmured the Cardinal dc 
Folignac. 

“Well, what does your eminence say to the States- 
General ?” interrupted Madame de Maine, impatiently. 
“ Has this measure the misfortune not to meet with your 
approbation ?” 

“ I neither blame nor approve, madame,” replied the car- 
dinal ; “ I only remember that this convocatiS'n was made 
during the league, and that Philip came off badly.” 

“Men and times are changed, cardinal,” replied the 
duchess; “ we are not in 1594, but in 1718. Philip II. was 
Flemish, and Philip V. is French. The same results cannot 
take place, since the causes are different.” And she went on 
tfith the letter : 

“ ‘ I ask this in the name of the blood which unites us — in 
the name of the great king from whom we have our origin— 


202 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


in the name of your people and mine. If ever there was a 
necessity to listen to the voice of the French nation, it is now. 
It is indispensable to learn what they think : whether they 
wish to declare war on us. As I am ready to expose my life 
to maintain its glory and interests, I hope you will reply 
quickly to the propositions I make to you. The Assembly 
will prevent the unfortunate results which threaten us, and 
the forces of Spain will only be employed to sustain the 
greatness of France, and to fight her enemies, as I shall never 
employ them but to show your majesty my sincere regard 
and affection.* 

“ What do you think of that, gentlemen ? Can his majesty 
say more ?’* 

“ He might have joined to this an epistle addressed directly 
to the States-General,” answered the Cardinal de Polignac. 
“ This letter, if the king had deigned to send it, would have 
had a great influence on their deliberations.” 

“ Here it is,” said the Prince de Cellamare, taking a paper 
from his pocket. 

“ What, prince !” cried the cardinal. 

“ I say that his majesty is of the same opinion as your 
eminence, and has sent me this letter, which is the comple- 
ment of the letter which the Baron de Valef has.” 

‘ Then nothing is wanting,” cried Madame de Maine. 

“ We want Bayonne,” said the Prince de Cellamare 

Bayonne, the door of France.” 

At this moment D’ Avranches entered, announcing the Due 
de Richelieu. 

And now, prince, there is nothing wanting,” said the 
Marquis de Pompadour, laughing ; “ for here is he who holds 
the key.” 


THE vue DE RICHELIEU. 


«03 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE DUC DE RICHELIEU. 

“ At last !” cried the duchess, seeing Richelieu enter. ‘‘Are 
you, then, always the same ? Your friends cannot count on 
you any more than your mistresses.” 

“ On the contrary, madame,” said Richelieu, approaching 
the duchess, “ for to-day, more than ever, I prove to your 
highness that I can reconcile everything.” 

“Then you have made a sacrifice for us, duke,” said 
Madame de Maine, laughing. 

“Ten thousand times greater than you can imagine. Who 
do you think I have left ?” 

“ Madame de Villars ?” asked the duchess. 

“ Oh no ! better than that” 

“ Madame de Duras ?” 

“No.” 

“ Madame de Nésle ?” 

“ Bah 1” 

•‘ Madame de Polignac ? Ah ! pardon, cardinal.” 

*‘Go on. It does not concern his Eminence.” 

“ Madame de Sou bise. Madame de Gabriant, Madame de 
Gacé?” 

“ No, no, no.” 

“ Mademoiselle de Charolais T 

“ I have not seen her since my last trip to the Bastille.” 

“ Mademoiselle de Valois ?” 

“Oh ! I intend her for my wife, when we have succeeded, 
and I am a Spanish prince. No, m.adame ; I have left, for 
your highness, the two most charming grisettes.” 

“ Grisettes ! Ah ! fie !” cried the duchess, with a move- 
ment of contempt, “ I did not think that you descended to 
such creatures.” 

“ Creatures ! two charming women ! Madame Michelin 
and Madame Renaud. Do you not know them ? Madame 


204 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


Michelin, a beautiful blonde ; her husband is a carpet 
manufacturer; I recommend him to you, duchess. Madame 
Rénaud, an adorable brunette, with blue eyes and black 
lashes, and whose husband is Ma foi ! I do not re- 
member exactly ” 

“What M. Michelin is, probably,” said Pompadour, 
laughing. 

“ Pardon, duke,” replied Madame de Maine, who had lost 
all curiosity for Richelieu’s love adventures as soon as they 
travelled from a certain set, “ may I venture to remind you 
that we met here on important business !” 

“ Oh yes ! we are conspiring, are we not ?” 

“ Had you forgotten it ?” 

“ Ma foi 1 a conspiracy is not one of the gayest things in 
the world, therefore I forget it whenever I can ; but that is 
nothing — whenever it is necessary lean come back to it Now 
let us see : how does the conspiracy go on T 

“ Here, duke, look at these letters, and you will know as 
much as we do.” 

“ Oh ! your highness must excuse me,” said Richelieu ; 
“ but really I do not read those which are addressed to me, 
and I have seven or eight hundred, in the most charming 
writings, which I am keeping to amuse my old days. Here, 
Malezieux, you, who are clearness itself, give me a report” 

“ Well, these letters are the engagements of the Breton 
nobles to sustain the rights of her highness.” 

“ Very good.” 

“ This paper is the protestation of the nobility.” 

“Oh ! give it me. I protest” 

“ But you do not know against what” 

“ Never mind, I protest all the same.” 

And, taking the paper, he wrote his name after that of 
Guillaume Antoine de Chastellux, which was the last sig- 
nature. 

“ Let him alone,” said Cellamare to the duchess, “ Riche- 
lieu’s name is useful everywhere.” 

“ And this letter ?” asked the duke, pointing to the missive 
of Philip V. 

“ That letter,” continued Malezieux, “ is written by King 
Philip himselfl” 


THE DUC DE RICHELIEU. 


205 


“Then his Catholic majesty writes worse than I do,” 
answered Richelieu. “ That pleases me. Raffé always says 
it is impossible.” 

“ If the letter is badly written, the news it contains is 
none the less good,” said M?.dame de Maine, “ for it is a 
letter begging the King of France to assemble the States- 
General to oppose the treaty of the quadruple alliance.” 

“And is your highness sure of the States-General ?” 

“ Here is the protestation which engages the nobility. 
The cardinal answers for the clergy, and there only remains 
the army.” 

“ The army,” said Laval, “ is my affair. I have the signs- 
manual of twenty-two colonels.” 

“ First,” said Richelieu, “ I answer for my regiment, which 
is at Bayonne, and which, consequently, is able to be of 
great service to us.” 

“ Yes,” said Cellamare, “ and we reckon on it, but I heard 
that there was a question of changing the garrison.” 

“Seriously.” 

“ Very seriously. You understand, duke ? VVe must be 
beforehand.” 

“ Instantly — paper — ink ; I will write to the Due de Ber- 
wick. At the moment of commencing a campaign, no one 
will be astonished at my begging not to be removed from the 
theatre of war.” 

The duchess hastened to give Richelieu what he asked, 
and taking a pen, presented it to him herself. The duke 
bowed, took the pen, and wrote a letter to the Due de 
Berwick, begging that his regiment should not be removed 
till May. 

“Now read, madame,” continued the duke, passing the 
paper to Madame de Maine. The duchess took the letter, 
read it, and passed it to her neighbour, who passed it on, so 
that it made the round of the table. Malezieux, who had it 
the last, could not repress a slight smile. 

“ Ah ! poet,” said Richelieu, “you are laughing; I suppose 
I have had the misfortune to offend that ridiculous prude 
called orthography. You know I am a gentleman, and they 
forgot to teach me French; thinking, I suppose, that for 
fifteen hundred francs a year I can always have a valet-de- 


236 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


chambre, who could write my letters and make my verses. 
This will not prevent me, my dear Malezieux, from being in 
the Academy, not only before you, but before Voltaire.’' 

“ In which case, will your valet-de-chambre write your 
discourse ?” 

“ He is working at it, and you will see that it will not be 
worse than those that some academicians of my acquaintance 
have done themselves.” 

“ Duke,” said Madame de Maine, “ it will doubtless be a 
curious thing to see your reception into the illustrious body 
of which you speak, and I promise you to employ myself to- 
morrow in procuring a seat for that day ; but this evening we 
are occupied with other things.” 

“ Well,” said Richelieu, “ speak, I listen. What have 
you resolved ?” 

“ To obtain from the king, by means of these two letters, 
the convocation of the States-General ; then, sure as we are of 
the three orders, we depose the regent, and name Philip V. 
in his place.” 

“ And as Philip V. cannot leave Madrid, he gives us full 
powers, and we govern France in his stead. Well, it is not 
badly arranged, all that, but to convoke the States-General 
you must have an order from the king.” 

“ The king will sign it.” 

“ Without the regent’s knowledge ?” 

“ Without the regent’s knowledge.” 

“ Then you have promised the Bishop of Fréjus to make 
him a cardinal.” 

“ No ; but I will promise Villeroy a title and the Golden 
Fleece.” 

“I am afraid, madame,” said the Princeof Cellamare, ‘‘that 
all this will not determine the marshal to undertake so grave 
a responsibility.” 

“ It is not the marshal we want ; it is his wife.” 

“ Ah ! you remind me,” said Richelieu, “ I undertake it” 

“You !” said the duchess, with astonishment. 

“ Yes, madame,” replied Richelieu, “ you have your cor- 
respondence, I have mine. I have seen seven or eight letters 
that you have received to-day. Will your highness have the 
goodness to look at one I received "'esterday ?” 


THE DUC DE RICHELIEU. 


20 ? 


** Is this letter for me only, or may it be read aloud ?” 

“ Wc are among discreet people, are we not ?” said 
Richelieu, looking round him. 

‘‘ I think so,” replied the duchess, besides, the gravity of 
the situation.” 

The duchess took the letter, and read : 

“ ‘ Monsieur le Duc, 

“ ‘ I am a woman of my word. My husband is on 
the eve of setting out for the little journey you know of. To» 
morrow, at eleven o’clock, I shall be at home for you only. 
Do not think that I decide on this step without having put 
all the blame on the shoulders of Monsieur de Villeroy. I 
begin to fear for him, as you may have undertaken to punish 
him. Come, then, at the appointed hour, to prove to me 
that I am not too much to blame in conspiring with you 
against my lord and master.’ ” 

“ Ah ! pardon, that is not the one I intended to show you, 
that is the one of the day before yesterday. Here is 
yesterday’s.” 

The duchess took the second letter, and read as follows ! 

“ ‘ My dear Armand,’ 

— “ Is this it, or are you mistaken again ?” said the duchess 
to Richelieu. 

“ No, no ; this time it is right.” 

The duchess went on. 

“ ‘ My dear Armand, 

“ ‘ You are a dangerous advocate when you plead against 
Monsieur de Villeroy. I need to exaggerate your talents to 
diminish my weakness. You had, in my heart, a judge, in- 
terested in your gaining your cause. Come to-morrow to 
plead again, and I will give you an audience.’ 

“ And have you been there ?” 

Certainly, madame.” 

“ And the duchess ?” 

“ Will do, I hope, all we desire ; and, as she makes her 
husband do whatever she likes, we shall have our order for 
I he convocation of the States-General on his return.” 

‘‘ A.nd when will he return ?” 


208 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


** In a week.” 

“ And can you be faithful all that time ?” 

“ Madame, when I have undertaken a cause, T am capable 
of the greatest sacrifices to forward it.” 

“ Then we may count on your word ?” 

I pledge myself.” 

‘‘You hear, gentlemen?” said the Duchess de Maine. 
“Let us continue to work. You, Laval, act on the army. 
You, Pompadour, on the nobility. You, cardinal, on the 
clergy, and let us leave the Due de Richelieu to act on Ma- 
dame de Villeroy. ” 

“ And for what day is our next meeting fixed ?” asked 
Cell am are. 

“All depends on circumstances, prince,” replied the 
duchess. “ At any rate, if I have not time to give you 
notice, I will send the same carriage and coachman to fetch 
you who took you to the Arsenal the first time you came 
there.” Then, turning towards Richelieu, “ You give us the 
rest of the evening, duke ?” 

“ I ask your pardon,” replied Richelieu, “ but it is abso- 
lutely impossible; I am expected in the Rue des Bons 
Enfants.” 

“ What ! have you made it up with Madame de Sabran ?** 

“We never quarrelled, madame.” 

“Take care, duke ; that looks like constancy.” 

“ No, madame, it is calculation.” 

“Ah ! I see that you are on the road towards becoming 
devoted.” 

“ I never do things by halves, madame.” 

“Well, we will follow your example, monsieur le duc. 
And now we have been an hour and a half away, and should, 
I think, return to the gardens, that our absence may not be 
too much noticed ; besides, I think the Goddess of Night is 
on the shore, waiting to thank us for the preference we have 
given her over the sun.” 

“ With your permission, however, madame,” said Laval, 
“ I must keep you an instant longer, to tell you the trouble 
I am in.” 

“Speak, count,” replied the duchess ; “what is the matter?” 

“ It is about our requests our protestations. It was agreed. 


THE DUC DE RICHELIEU 


209 


if you remember, that they should be printed by workmen 
who cannot read.” 

“Well.” 

“ I bought a press, and established it in the cellar of a 
house behind the Val-de-Grace. I enlisted the necessary 
workmen, and, up to the present time, have had the most 
satisfactory results ; but the noise of our machine has given 
rise to the suspicion that we were coining false money, and 
yesterday the police made a descent on the house; fortunately, 
there was time to stop the work and roll a bed over the trap, 
so that they discovered nothing. But as the visit might be 
renewed, and with a less fortunate result, as soon as they 
were gone I dismissed the workmen, buried the press, and 
had all the proofs taken to my own house.” 

“ And you did well, count,” cried the Cardinal de Polignac. 

“ But what are we to do now ?” asked Madame de Maine. 

“ Have the press taken to my house,” said Pompadour. 

“ Or mine,” said Valef. 

“ No, no,” said Malezieux ; “ a press is too dangerous a 
means. One of the police may easily slip in among the work- 
men, and all will be lost Besides, there cannot be much 
left to print.” 

“ The greater part is done,” said LavaL 

“ Well,” continued Malezieux, “ my advice is, as before, 
to employ some intelligent copyist, whose silence we can buy.” 

“ Yes, this will be much safer,” said Polignac. 

“ But where can we find such a man ?” said the prince, 
“ It is not a thing for which we can take the first comer.” 

“ If I dared,” said the Abbé Brigand. 

“ Dare, abbé ! dare !” said the duchess. 

“ I should say that I know the man you want.” 

“ Did I not tell you,” said Pompadour, “that the abbé was 
a precious man ?” 

“ But is he really what we want ?” said Polignac. 

“ Oh, if your eminence had him made on purpose he 
could not do better,” said Brigand. “ A true machine, who 
will write everything and see nothing.” 

“ But as a still greater precaution,” said the prince, “ we 
might put the most important papers into Spanish.” 

“ Then, prince,” said Brigaud, “ I will send him to you.” 

14 


210 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ No, no,” said Cellamare ; “ he must not set his foot 
within the Spanish embassy. It must be done through some 
third party.” 

“ Yes, yes, we will arrange all that,” said the duchess. 
“ The man is found — that is the principal thing. You answer 
for him, Brigaud ?” 

“ I do, madame.” 

“ That is all we require. And now there is nothing to 
keep us any longer,” continued the duchess. “Monsieur 
d’Harmental, give me your arm, I beg.” 

The chevalier hastened to obey Madame de Maine, who 
seized this opportunity to express her gratitude for the courage 
he had shown in the Rue des Bons Enfants, and his skill in 
Brittany. At the door of the pavilion, the Greenland envoys 
— now dressed simply as guests — found a little galley waiting 
to take them to the shore. Madame de Maine entered first, 
seated D’Harmental by her, leaving Malezieux to do the 
honours to Cellamare and Richelieu. As the duchess had 
said, the Goddess of Night, dressed in black gauze spangled 
with golden stars, was waiting on the other side of the lake, 
accompanied by the twelve Hours ; and, as the duchess ap- 
proached, they began to sing a cantata appropriate to the 
subject. At the first notes of the solo D’Harmental started, 
for the voice of the singer had so strong a resemblance to 
another voice, well known to him and dear to his recollection, 
that he rose involuntarily to look for the person whose accents 
had so singularly moved him ; unfortunately, in spite of the 
torches which the Hours, her subjects, held, he could not 
distinguish the goddess’s features, which were covered with a 
long veil, similar to her dress. He could only hear that pure, 
flexible, sonorous voice, and that easy and skilful execution, 
which he had so much admired when he heard it for the 
first time in the Rue du Temps-Perdu ; and each accent of 
that voice, becoming more distinct as he approached the 
shore, made him tremble from head to foot. At length the 
solo ceased, and the chorus recommencect,; but D’Harmental, 
insensible to all other thoughts, continued to follow the 
vanished notes. 

“Well, Monsieur d’Harmental,” said the duchess, “are 
you so accessible to the charms of music that you forget that 
you are my cavalier ?” 


THE DUC DE RICHELIEU. 2il 

“ Oh, pardon, madame,” said D’Harmentaî, leaping to the 
shore, and holding out his hand to the duchess, “but I 
thought I recognised that voice, and I confess it brought 
back such memories !” 

“ That proves that you are an habitué of the opera, my 
dear chevalier, and that you appreciate, as it deserves. Made- 
moiselle Berry’s talent.” 

“ What, is that voice Mademoiselle Berry’s ?” asked D’Har« 
mental, with astonishment. 

“ It is, monsieur ; and if you do not believe me,” replied 
the duchess, “ permit me to take Laval’s arm, that you may 
go and assure yourself of it.” 

“Oh, madame,” said D’Harmental, respectfully retaining 
the hand she was about to withdraw, “pray excuse me. We 
are in the gardens of Armida, and a moment of error may be 
permitted among so many enchantments ;” and, presenting 
his arm again to the duchess, he conducted her towards 
the château. At this instant a feeble cry was heard, and 
feeble as it was, it reached D’Harmental’s heart, and he 
turned involuntarily. 

“What is it?” asked the duchess, with an uneasiness 
mixed with impatience. 

“ Nothing, nothing,” said Richelieu ; “ it is little Berry, 
who has the vapours. Make yourself easy, madame. I 
know the disease ; it is not dangerous. If you particularly 
wish it, I would even go to-morrow to learn how she is.” 

Two hours after this little accident — which was not suffi- 
cient to disturb the fête in any way — D’Harmental was 
brought back to Paris by the Abbé Brigaud, and re-entered 
his. little attic in the Rue du Temps-Perdu, from which he 
had been absent six weeks. 


8ia 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

JEALOUSY. 

The first sensation D’Harmental experienced on returning 
was one of inexpressible satisfaction at finding himself again 
in that little room so filled with recollections. Though he 
had been absent six weeks, one might have supposed that he 
had only quitted it the day before, as, thanks to the almost 
maternal care of Madame Denis, everything was in its accus- 
tomed place. D’Harmental remained an instant, his candle 
in his hand, looking around him with a look almost of ecstasy. 
All the other impressions of his life were effaced by those 
which he had experienced in this little corner of the world. 
Then he ran to the window, opened it, and threw an inde- 
scribable look of love over the darkened windows of his 
neighbour. Doubtless Bathilde slept the sleep of an angel, 
unconscious that D’Harmental was there, trembling with 
love and hope. 

He remained thus for more than half an hour, breathing 
the night air, which had never seemed to him so pure and 
fresh, and began to feel that Bathilde had become one of the 
necessities of his life ; but as he could not pass the whole 
night at his window^ he then closed it, and came into his 
room, although only to follow up the recollections with which 
it was filled. He opened his piano, and passed his fingers 
ever the keys, at the risk of re-exciting the anger of the 
lodger on the third floor. From the piano he passed to the 
unfinished portrait of Bathilde. At length he slept, listening 
again, in his mind, to the air sung by Mademoiselle Berry, 
whom he finished by believing to be one and the same person 
as Bathilde. When he awoke, D’Harmental jumped from 
his bed, and ran to the window. The day appeared already 
advanced ; the sun was shining brilliantly ; yet Bathilde’s 
^window remained hermetically closed. 

The chevalier looked at his watch; it was ten o’clock, 


JEALOUSY, 213 

and he began to dress. We have already confessed that he 
was not free from a certain almost feminine coquetry ; but this 
was the fault of the time, when everything was mannered — 
even passion. At this time it was not a melancholy expres- 
sion on which he reckoned. The joy of return had given to 
his face a charming expression of happiness, and it was evi- 
dent that a glance from Bathilde would crown him king of 
the creation. This glance he came to the window to seek, 
but Bathilde’s remained closed. D’Harmental opened his, 
hoping that the noise would attract her attention ; nothing 
stirred. He reniained there an hour : during this hour there 
was not even a breath of wind to stir the curtains : the young 
girl’s room must be abandoned. He coughed, opened and 
closed the window, detached little pieces of plaster from the 
wall, and threw them against the window — all in vain. 

To surprise succeeded uneasiness ; this window, so obsti- 
nately closed, must indicate absence, if not misfortune. 
Bathilde absent ! — where could she be ? What had happened 
to disturb her calm, regular life ? Who could he ask ? No 
one but Madame Denis could know. It was quite natural 
that D’Harmental should pay a visit to his landlady on his 
return, and he accordingly went down. Madame Denis had 
not seen him since the day of the breakfast. She had not 
forgotten his attention when she fainted. She received him 
like the prodigal son. Fortunately for D’Harmental, the 
young ladies were occupied with a drawing lesson, and 
Boniface was at his office, so that he saw no one but his 
hostess. The conversation fell naturally on the order and 
neatness of his room during his absence; from this the 
transition was easy to the question if the opposite lodging 
had changed tenants. Madame Penis replied that she had 
seen Bathilde at the window the morning before ; and that 
in the evening her son had met Buvat returning from his 
office, but had noticed in him a singular air of pride and 
hauteur. This was all D’Harmental wished to know. 
Bathilde was in Paris, and at home ; chance had not yet 
directed her looks towards that window so long closed, and 
that room so long empty. He took leave of Madame Denis 
with an effusion of gratitude which she was far from attri- 
buting to its true cause ; and on the landing he met the 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


ai4 

Abbé Brîgaud, who was coming to pay his daily visit to 
Madame Denis. 

The abbé asked if he was going home, and promised to 
pay him a visit. On entering his room D’Harmental went 
straight to the window. Nothing was changed; it was evi- 
dently a plan, and he resolved to employ the last means 
which he had reserved. He sat down to the piano, and after 
a brilliant prelude sang the air of the cantata of Night which 
he had heard the evening before, and of which he had re- 
tained every note in his memory. Meanwhile he did not 
lose sight for an instant of the inexorable window ; but there 
was no sign. The opposite room had no echo. 

But D’Harmental had produced an effect which he did 
not expect. Hearing applause, he turned round, and saw 
the Abbé Brigand behind him. 

“ Ah ! it is you, abbé ?” said D’Harmental ; “ I did not 
know that you were so great a lover of music.” 

“ Nor you so good a musician. Peste ! my dear pupil, an 
air you only heard once. It is wonderful.” 

“ I thought it very beautiful, abbé, and as I have a very 
good memory for sounds, I retained it.” 

“ And then it was so admirably sung. Was it not ?” 

“Yes,” said D’Harmental; “ Mademoiselle Berry has an 
exquisite voice, and the first time she sings I shall go incog* 
nito to the opera.” 

“ Is it that voice you want to hear ?” asked Brigaud. 

“ Yes.” 

“Then you must not go to the opera for that” 

“ And where must I go ?” 

“ Nowheçe. Stay here. You are in the boxes.” 

“ What ! The Goddess of Night ?” 

“ Is your neighbour.” 

“ Bathilde !” cried D’Harmental. “ Then I was not de- 
ceived ; I recognised her. But it is impossible 1 How could 
she have been there ?” 

“ First of all,” said the abbé, “ nothing is impossible ; re- 
member that, before you deny or undertake anything. 
Believe that everything is possible ; it is the way to succeed 
in everything.” 

“ But Bathilde T 


/EALOUSY, 


215 


“Yes, does it not appear strange at first ? Well, nothing 
is more simple. But it does not interest you, chevalier ; let 
us talk of something else.” 

“ Yes, yes, abbé ; you are strangely mistaken — I am deeply 
interested.” 

“ Well, my dear pupil, since you are so curious, this is the 
whole affair. The Abbé Chaulieu knows Mademoiselle 
Bathilde ; is not that your neighbour’s name?” 

“ Yes. How does the Abbé Chaulieu know her ?” 

“ Oh ! it is very simple. The guardian of this charming 
child is, as you know, or do not know, one of the best 
writers and copyists in the capital The Abbé Chaulieu 
wants some one to copy his poetry, since, being blind, he is 
obliged to dictate in the first instance to a little lackey who 
cannot spell, and he has confided this important task to 
Buvat. By this means he has become acquainted with 
Mademoiselle Bathilde.” 

“ But all this does not explain how Mademoiselle Bathilde 
came to Sceaux.” 

“ Stop ; every history has its commencement, its middle, 
and its termination.” 

Abbé, you will make me swear.” 

“ Patience, patience.” 

“ Go on; I listen to you.” 

“Well, having made Mademoiselle Bathilde’s acquaint- 
ance, the Abbé Chaulieu, like the rest, has felt the influence 
of her charms, for there is a species of magic attached to 
the young person in question ; no one can see her without 
loving her.” 

“ I know it,” murmured D’Harmental. 

“ Then, as Mademoiselle Bathilde is full of talent, and not 
only sings like a nightingale, but draws like an angel, Chau- 
lieu spoke of her so enthusiaetically to Mademoiselle de 
Launay that she thought of employing her for the costumes 
of the different personages in the fête.” 

“This does not tell me that it was Bathilde and not 
Mademoiselle Berry who sang last night.” 

“ We are coming to it.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ It happened that Mademoiselle de Launay, like the rest 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


ti6 

of the world, took a violent fancy to the little witch. Instead 
of sending her away after the costumes were finished, she 
kept her three days at Sceaux. She was still there the day 
before yesterday, closeted with Mademoiselle de Launay, 
when some one entered with a bewildered air to announce 
that the director of the opera wished to speak to her on a 
matter of importance. Mademoiselle de Launay went out, 
leaving Bathilde alone. Bathilde, to amuse herself, went 
to the piano, and finding both the instrument and her voice 
in good order, began to sing a great scene from some opera, 
and with such perfection that Mademoiselle de Launay, re- 
turning and hearing this unexpected song, opened the door 
softly, listened to the air, and threw her arms round the 
beautiful singer’s neck, crying out that she could save her 
life. Bathilde, astonished, asked how, and in what manner, 
she could render her so great a service. Then Mademoiselle 
de Launay told her how she had engaged Mademoiselle 
Berry of the opera to sing the cantata of Night on the suc- 
ceeding evening, and she had fallen ill and sent to say that 
to her great regret her Royal Highness the Duchesse de 
Maine could not rely upon her, so that there would be no 
‘ Night,’ and, consequently, no fête, if Bathilde would not 
have the extreme goodness to undertake the aforesaid 
cantata. 

“ Bathilde, as you may suppose, defended herself with all 
her might, and declared that it was impossible that she should 
thus sing music which she did not know. Mademoiselle de 
Launay put the cantata before her. Bathilde said that the 
mu-îic seemed terribly difficult Mademoiselle de Launay 
answered that for a musician of her powers nothing was diffi- 
cult Bathilde got up. Mademoiselle de Launay made her 
sit down again. Bathilde clasped her hands. Mademoiselle 
de Launay unclasped them and placed them on the piano. 
The piano being touched gave out a sound. Bathilde, in 
spite of herself, played the first bar ; then the second ; then 
the whole cantata. Then she attacked the song, and sang 
it to the end with an admirable justness of intonation and 
beauty of expression. Mademoiselle de Launay was en- 
chanted. Madame de Maine arrived in despair at what she 
had heard of Mademoiselle Berry. Mademoiselle de Launay 


JEALOUSY, 




begged Bathilde to recommence the cantata. Bathilde did 
not dare to refuse; she played and sang like an angel. Madame 
de Maine joined her prayers to those of Mademoiselle de 
Launay. You know, chevalier, that it is impossible to refuse 
Madame de Maine anything. 

“ Poor Bathilde was obliged to give way, and half laughing, 
half crying, she consented, on two conditions. The first, 
that she might go herself to her friend Buvat to explain her 
absence ; the second, that she might remain at home all that 
evening and the next morning in order to study the unfortu- 
nate cantata. These clauses, after a long discussion, were 
granted, with reciprocal promises, on Bathilde’s part that she 
would return at seven o’clock the next evening, on the part 
of Mademoiselle de Launay and Madame de Maine that 
every one should continue to believe that it was Mademoiselle 
Berry who sung.” 

“ But then,” asked D’Harmental, “ how was the secret 
betrayed ?” 

“ Oh ! by an unforeseen circumstance,” replied Brigand, 
in that strange manner which caused one to doubt if he was 
in jest or earnest. “ All went off capitally, as you know, till 
the end of the cantata, and the proof is, that having only 
heard it once, you are able to remember it from one end to 
the other. At the moment the galley which brought us from 
the pavilion of Aurora touched the shore, whether from 
emotion at having sung for the first time in public, or that 
she recognised among Madame de Maine’s suite some one 
she had not expected to see there, for some unknown reason, 
however, the poor Goddess of Night uttered a cry and fainted 
in the arms of the Hours, her companions. All promises and 
oaths were at once forgotten ; her veil was removed to throw 
water in her face, so that when I came up, whilst you were 
going away with h^ highness, I was much astonished to find, 
instead of Mademoiselle Berry, your pretty neighbour. I 
questioned Mademoiselle de Launay, and as it was impossible 
any longer to keep the incognito, she told me what had 
passed, under the seal of secresy, which I have betrayed for 
you only, my dear pupil, because, I do not know why, I can 
refuse you nothing.” 

“ And this indisposition P’ asked D’Harmental with un- 
easiness. 


2i8 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ Oh ! it was nothing ; a mere momentary emotion which 
had no bad consequences, since, in spite of all they could say 
to the contrary, Bathilde would not remain another hour at 
Sceaux, but insisted on returning, so that they put a carriage 
at her disposal, and she ought to have been home an houi 
before us.” 

“ Then you are sure she is at home ? Thanks, abbé, that 
is all I wished to know.’* 

“ And now,” said Brigaud, “ I may go, may I not ? You 
have no more need of me, now that you know all you wish 
to know.” 

“ I do not say so, my dear Brigaud ; on the contrary, stop, 
you will give me great pleasure.” 

“ No, I thank you ; I have got some business of my own 
to transact in the town, and will leave you to your reflections, 
my dear pupil.” 

“When shall I see you again?” asked D’Harmental, 
mechanically. 

“ Most likely to-morrow,” answered the abbé. 

“Adieu till to-morrow, then.” 

“ Till to-morrow.” 

So saying, the abbé turned round, laughing his peculiar 
laugh, and reached the door while D’Harmental was re- 
opening his window, determined to remain there till the next 
day, if necessary, and only desiring, as a reward for this long 
watch, to catch a single glimpse of Bathilde. 

The poor gentleman was in love over head and ears. 


A PRETEXT. 


2Ï9 


CHAPTER XXV, 

A PRETEXT. 

At a few minutes past four D’Harmental saw Buvat turning 
the corner of the Rue du Temps-Perdu. The chevalier 
thought he could recognise in the worthy writer an air of 
greater haste than usual, and instead of holding his stick per- 
pendicularly, as a bourgeois always does when he is walking, 
he held it horizontally, like a runner. As to that air of 
majesty which had so struck Monsieur Boniface, it had en- 
tirely vanished, and had given place to a slight expression of 
uneasiness . He could not be mistaken. Buvat would not 
return so quickly if he was not uneasy about Bathilde. Ba- 
thilde, then, w^as suffering. 

The chevalier follow^ed Buvat wûth his eyes till the moment 
when he disappeared in his own door. D’Harmental, with 
reason, imagined that Buvat would go into Bathilde’s room, 
instead of mounting to his own, and he hoped that Buvat 
W'ould open the window to admit the last rays of the sun, 
which had been caressing it all day. 

But D’Harmental was wrong ; Buvat contented himself 
with raising the curtain, and pressing his good round face 
against the window, and drumming on the panes with his 
hands ; but even this apparition was of short duration, for he 
turned round suddenly, as a man does when any one calls 
him, and let fall the muslin curtain behind him and dis- 
appeared. D’Harmental presumed that his disappearance 
was caused by some appeal to his appetite, and this reminded 
him, that in his preoccupation about the obstinacy of that 
unlucky window in refusing to open, he had forgotten his own 
breakfast, which, it must be confessed, to the shame of his 
sensibility, was a very great infraction on his habits. Now, 
however, as there was no chance that the window would open 
while his neighbours were at dinner, the chevalier determined 
to profit by the interval by dining himself; consequently he 


220 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


rang for the porter, and ordered him to get from the confec- 
tioner the fattest pullet, and from the fruiterer the finest fruit 
that he could find. As to wine, he had still got some bottles 
of that which the Abbé Brigand had sent him. 

D’Harmental ate with a certain remorse. He could not 
understand how he could be at the same time so tormented, 
and have such a good appetite. Luckily he remembered 
reading in the works of some moralist or other, that sorrow 
sharpened hunger wonderfully. This maxim set his con- 
science at rest, and the result was, that the unfortunate 
pullet was eaten up to the very bones. 

Although the act of dining was very natural, and by no 
means reprehensible, D’Harmental shut the window, leaving, 
however, a corner of the curtain raised , and, thanks to this 
precaution, he saw Buvat — who had doubtless finished his 
repast — appear at the window of his terrace. As we have 
• said, the weather was splendid, and Buvat seemed disposed 
to profit by it ; but as he belonged to that class of beings who 
enjoy nothing alone, he turned round, with a gesture, which 
D’Harmental took to be an invitation to Bathilde — who had 
doubtless followed him into his room — to come on to the 
terrace to him ; consequently, he hoped for an instant that 
Bathilde would appear, and he rose with a beating heart; but 
he was mistaken. However tempting might be the beau- 
tiful evening, and however pressing the invitations of Buvat, 
both were useless ; but it was not thus with Mirza, who, 
jumping out of the window without being invited, began to 
bound joyously about the terrace, holding in her mouth a 
purple ribbon, which she caused to flutter like a streamer, 
and which D’Harmental recognised as the one which had 
fastened his neighbour’s veil on the preceding night. Appa- 
rently, Buvat recognised it also, for he started off in pursuit 
of Mirza as fast as his little legs would allow him ; a pursuit 
which would doubtless have been indefinitely prolonged, if ‘ 
Mirza had not had the imprudence to take refuge in the 
arbour. Buvat pursued, and an instant afterwards D’Har- 
mental saw him return with the ribbon in his hand, and after 
smoothing it on his knee, he folded it up, and went in, pro- 
bably to deposit it in a place of safety. 

This was the moment that the chevalier had waited for ; 


A PRETEXT, 


321 


he opened his window and watched. In a minute he saw 
Mirza put her head out of the arbour, look about her, and 
jump on to the terrace ; then D’Harmental called her in the 
most caressing and seductive tone possible. Mirza trembled 
at the sound of his voice, then directed her eyes towards 
him. At the first look she recognised the man of the bits of 
sugar — gave a little growl of joy — then, with a rapid gastro- 
nomic instinct, she darted through Buvat’s window with a 
single bound, and disappeared. 

D’Harmental lowered his head, and, almost at the same 
instant, saw Mirza coming across the street like a flash of 
lightning ; and before he had time to shut his window, she 
was already scratching at the door. Luckily for D’Har- 
mental, Mirza had the memory of sugar as strongly de- 
veloped as he had that of sounds. 

It will be easily understood that the chevalier did not 
make the charming little creature wait ; and she darted into 
the room, bounding, and giving the most unequivocal signs 
of her joy at his unexpected return. As to D’Harmental, 
he was almost as happy as if he had seen Bathilde. Mirza 
was something to the young girl ; she was her dearly-loved 
greyhound, so caressed and kissed by her — who laid his 
head on her knees during the day, and slept on the foot of 
her bed during the night. The chevalier set Mirza to eat 
sugar, and sat down ; and letting his heart speak, and his 
pen flow, wrote the following letter ; ' 

^ Dearest Bathilde ; 

“You believe me very guilty, do you not? But 
you cannot know the strange circumstances in which I 
find myself, and which are my excuse ; if I could be happy 
enough to see you for an instant — even for an instant — you 
would understand that there are in me two different persons 
— the young student of the attic, and the gentleman of the 
fêtes at Sceaux. Open your winaow then, so that I may 
see you — or your door, so that I may speak to you. Let me 
come and sue for your pardon on my knees. I am certain 
that when you know how unfortunate I am, and how 
devotedly I love you, you will have pity on me. 

“Adieu, once more^ I love you more than I can express 1 


222 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


— more than you can believe — more than you can ever 
imagine. 

« Raoul.” 

This billet, which would have appeared very cold to a 
woman of these days, because it only said just what the 
writer intended, seemed sufficient to the chevalier, and was 
really impassioned for the epoch ; thus D’Harmental folded 
it up, and attached it as he had the first, to Mirza’s collar ; 
then, taking up the sugar, which the greedy little animal 
followed with her eyes to the cupboard, where D’Harmental 
shut it up, the chevalier opened the door of his room, and 
showed Mirza, with a gesture, what there remained for her to 
do. Whether it was pride or intelligence, the little creature 
did not wait to be told twice ; darted out on the staircase as 
if she had wings, and only stopped on the way to bite Mon- 
siear Boniface, whom she met coming home from his office; 
crossed the road, and disappeared in Bathilde’s house. 
D’Harmental remained at the window for a minute, fearing 
that Mirza would take his note to Buvat instead of Bathilde, 
but she was too intelligent for that, and he soon saw her appear 
in Bathilde’s room. Consequently, in order not to frighten 
poor Bathilde too much, he shut his window, hoping that by 
this concession he should obtain some sign, which would 
indicate to him that he was pardoned. 

But it did not turn out so. D’Harmental waited in vain all 
the evening, and a great part of the night. At eleven o’clock, 
the light scarcely seen through the double curtains, still her- 
metically closed, went out altogether, and D’Harmental was 
obliged to renounce the hope of seeing Bathilde till the 
next day. 

The next day brought the same rigour ; it was a settled 
plan of defence, which, with a man less in love than D’Har- 
mental, would simply have indicated fear of defeat ; but the 
chevalier, with a simplicity worthy of the age of gold, saw 
nothing but a coldness, in the eternity of which he began to 
believe, and it is true that it had lasted four and twenty 
hours. 

D’Harmentiil passed the morning in turning in his mind 
a thousand projects, each more absurd than the preceding 


A PRETEXT. 


223 


one. The only one which had common sense was to cross 
the street, mount boldly to Bathilde’s room, and tell her 
everything. It came to his mind like all the rest ; and as it 
was the only reasonable one, D’Harmental did well to stop 
at it. However, it would be a great boldness to present 
himself thus before Bathilde, without being authorised by 
the least sign, and without having any pretext to give. Such 
a course of conduct could but wound Bathilde, who was 
only too much irritated already ; it was better to wait then, 
and D’Harmental waited. At two o’clock Brigand returned, 
and found D’Harmental in a very savage state of mind. The 
abbé threw a glance towards the window, still hermetically 
closed, and divined everything. He took a chair, and sat 
down opposite D’Harmental, twisting his thumbs round one 
another, as he saw the chevalier doing. 

“My dear pupil,” said he, after an instant’s silence, “either 
I am a bad physiognomist, or I read on your face that some- 
thing profoundly sad has happened to you. 

“And you read right, my dear abbé,” said the chevalier; 
•*I am ennuied.” 

“Ah, indeed !” 

“ So much so,” said D’Harmental, “ that I am ready to 
send your conspiracy to the devil.” 

“ Oh, chevalier, one must not throw the helve after the 
hatchet ! What ! send the conspiracy to the devil, when it is 
going on wheels ! Nonsense ; and what will the others 
say?” 

“ Oh, you are charming, you and your others. The others, 
my dear abbé, have society, balls, the opera, duels, mistresses, 
amusements in fact, and they are not shut up like me in a 
nasty garret.” 

“Yes ; but the piano, the drawing ?” 

“ Even with this, it is not amusing.”^ 

“ Ah, it is not amusing when one sings or draws alone ; 
but when one sings or draws in company, it begins to do 
better.” 

“And with whom, in the devil’s name, should I sing or draw?” 

“ In the first place there are tie Demoiselles Denis.” 

“ Oh, yes. they sing beautifully and draw we 11 do they 
not ?” 


224 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ IMon Dieu ! I do not propose them to you as virtuosos 
an ] artists ; they have not the talents of your neighbour. 
But, by the-bye, there is your neighbour.’* 

“ Well, my neighbour ?” 

“ Why do you not sing with her, since she sings so well ? 
That will amuse you.” 

“ Do I know her ? Does she even open her window ? 
Look, since yesterday she has barricaded herself in her own 
room. Ah, yes, my neighbour is amiable.” 

“ Yes, they told me that she was charming.” 

“ Besides, it seems to me, that both singing in our own 
rooms, we should have a singular duet.” 

“ Then go to her room.” 

“To her room I Have I been introduced to her? Do I 
know her ?” 

“ Well, make a pretext.” 

“ I have been searching for one since yesterday.” 

“ And you have not found one, a man of imagination like 
you ? My dear pupil, I do not recognise you there.” 

“ Listen, abbé ! A truce to your pleasantries — I am not 
in the humour for them to-day : every one has his stupid 
days.” 

“ Well, on those days one addresses one’s self to one’s 
friends.” 

“ To one’s friends — and what for ?” 

“To find the pretext which one has sought for vainly 
one’s self.” 

“ Well, then, abbé, you are my friend ; find the pretext .• 
I wait for it.” 

“ Nothing is easier.” 

“ Really !” 

“ Do you want it ?’^ 

“ Take care what you engage to do.” 

“ I engage to open your neighbour’s door to you.” 

“ In a proper manner ?” 

“ How ! do I know any others ?” 

“ Abbé, I will strangle you if your pretext is bad.” 

“ But it is good.” 

“ Then you are an adorable man.” 

“ You remember what the Comte de Laval said about the 


A PRETEXT, 


•225 

descent which the police have made upon the house in the 
Val-de-Grace, and the necessity he was under of sending 
away his workmen and burying his press.” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ You remember the determination which was come to in 
consequence 

“ To employ a copyist.” 

“ Finally, you remember that I undertook to find that 
copyist ?” 

“Ido.” 

“ Well, this copyist on whom I had cast ray eyes, this 
honest man whom I promised to discover, is discovered, and 
is no other than the guardian of Bathilde.” 

“ Buvat ?” 

“ Himself! Well, I give you full powers, you go to his 
house, you offer him gold, the door is opened to you on 
the instant, and you can sing as much as you like with 
Bathilde.” 

“ My dear abbé,” cried D’Harmental, “ you have saved 
my life !” 

D’Harmental took his hat, and darted towards the door ; 
now that he had a pretext he doubted of nothing. 

“ Stop, stop,” said Brigaud ; “ you do not even ask me 
where the good man must go for the papers in question.” 

“To your house, pardieu !” 

“ Certainly not, young man, certainly not.” 

“Where then?” 

“At the Prince de Listhnay% Rue du Bac, no.” 

“ The Prince de Listhnay ! And who is he ?” 

“ One of our own making — D’Avranches, the valet-do- 
chambre to Madame de Maine.” 

“ And you think that he will play his part well ?” 

“ Not for you, perhaps, who are accustomed to see princes^ 
but for Buvat.” 

“ You are right. Au revoir, abbé 1” 

“ You find the pretext good ?” 

“Capital.” 

“Go, then, and good luck go with you.” 

D’Harmentai descended the stairs four at a time ; then, 
having arrived at the middle of the street, and seeing the 

15 


226 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


abbé watching him from the window, he made a parting sign 
to him with his hand, and disappeared through the door of 
Bathilde’s house. 


CHAPTER XXVL 

COUNTERPLOTS. 

On her part, as may be easily understood, Bathilde had not 
made such an effort without suffering from it ; the poor child 
loved D’Harmental with all the strength of a love at seven- 
teen, a first love. During the first month of his absence she 
had counted the days ; during the fifth week she had counted 
the hours ; during the last week she had counted the minutes. 
Then it was that the Abbé Chaulieu fetched her, to take her 
to Mademoiselle de Launay ; and as he had taken care, not 
only to speak of her talents, but also to tell who she was, 
Bathilde was received with all the consideration which was 
due to her, and which poor De Launay paid all the more 
readily from its having been so long forgotten towards herself. 

This removal, which had rendered Buvat so proud, was 
received by Bathilde as an amusement, which might help her 
to pass these last moments of suspense ; but when she found 
that Mademoiselle de Launay wished to retain her longer, 
'when, according to her calculation, Raoul would return, she 
^cursed the jnstant when the abbé had taken her to Sceaux, 
and would certainly have refused, if Madame de Maine her- 
self had not interposed.. It was impossible to refuse a person 
;who, according to the ide^ q( the time, from the supremacy 
of her .raiik, had alniost ^ right to command this service ; but 
9.S she would ïiave reproached herself eternally if Raoul had 
returned in her absence, and in returning had found her win- 
dow closed, she had, as we have seen, insisted on returning to 
study the cantata, and to explain to Buvat what had passed. 
Poor Bathilde ! she had invented two false pretexts, to hide, 
under a double veil, the true motive of her return. 

If Buvat had been proud when Bathilde was employed to 
draw the costumes for the fête, he was doubly so when he 


COUNTERPLOTS, 


227 


found that she was destined to play a part in it. Buvat had 
constantly dreamed of Bathilde’s return to fortune, and to 
that social position of which her parents’ death had de- 
prived her, and all that brought her among the world in 
which she was born appeared to him a step towards this 
inevitable and happy result. However, the three days which 
he had passed without seeing her appeared to him like three 
centuries. At the office it was not so bad, though every one 
could see that some extraordinary event had happened ; but 
it was when he came home that poor Buvat found himself so 
miserable. 

The first day he could not eat, when he sat down to that 
table where, for thirteen years, he had been accustomed to 
see Bathilde sitting opposite to him. The next day, when 
Nanette reproached him, and told him that he was injuring 
his health, he made an effort to eat ; but he had hardly 
finished his meal when he felt as if he had been swallowing 
lead, and was obliged to have recourse to the most power- 
ful digestives to help down this unfortunate dinner. The 
third day Buvat did not sit down to table at all, and Nanette 
had the greatest trouble to persuade him to take some broth, 
into which she declared she saw two great tears fall In the 
evening Bathilde returned, and brought back his sleep and 
his appetite. Buvat, who for three nights had hardly slept, 
and for three days had hardly eaten, now slept like a top 
and ate like an ogre. Bathilde also was very joyous ; she 
calculated that this must be the last day of Raoul’s absence. 
He had said he should be away six weeks. She had already 
counted forty-one long days, and Bathilde would not admit 
that there could be an instant’s delay ; thus the next day she 
watched her neighbour’s window constantly while studying 
the cantata. Carriages were rare in the Rue du Temps- 
Perdu, but it happened that three passed between ten and 
four ; each time she ran breathless to the window, and each 
time was disappointed. At four o’clock Buvat returned, and 
this time it was Bathilde who could not swallow a single 
morsel. The time to set out for Sceaux at length arrived, 
nnd Bathilde set out deploring the fate which prevented her 
following her watch through the night 

When she arrived at Sceaux, however, the lights, the noise, 

15—2 


22 $ 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


the music, and above all the excitement of singing for the 
first time in public, made her — for the time — almost forget 
RaouL Now and then the idea crossed her mind that he 
might return during her absence, and finding her window 
closed, would think her indifferent ; but then she remembered 
that Mademoiselle de Launay had promised her that she 
should be home before daylight, and she determined that 
Raoul should see her standing at her window directly he 
opened his — then she would explain to him how she had been 
obliged to be absent that evening, she would allow him to sus- 
pect what she had suffered, and he would be so happy that he 
would forgive her. 

All this passed through Bathilde’s mind whilst waiting for 
Madame de Maine on the border of the lake, and it was in 
the midst of the discourse she was preparing for Raoul that 
the approach of the little galley surprised her. At first — in 
her fear of singing before such a great company — she thought 
her voice would fail, but she was too good an artiste not to be 
encouraged by the admirable instrumentation which supported 
her. She resolved not to allow herself to be intimidated, and 
abandoning herself to the inspiration of the music and the 
scene, she went through her part with such perfection that 
every one continued to take her for the singer whom she re- 
placed, although that singer was the first at the opera, and 
was supposed to have no rival. But Bathilde’s astonishment 
was great, when, after the solo was finished, she looked to- 
wards the group which was approaching her, and saw, seated 
by Madame de Maine, a young cavalier, so much like Raoul, 
that, if this apparition had presented itself to her in the midst 
of the song, her voice must have failed her. For an instant 
she doubted ; but as the galley touched the shore she could 
do so no longer. Two such likenesses could not exist — even 
between brothers ; and it was certain that the young cavalier 
of Sceaux and the young student of the attic, were one and 
the same person. 

This was not, however, what wounded Bathilde ; the rank 
w'hich Raoul appeared to hold, instead of removing him from 
the daughter of Albert du Rocher, only brought him nearer 
to her, and she had recognised in him, at first sight, as he 
had in her, the marks of high birth. What wounded her — 


COUNTERPLOTS. 


229 


as a betrayal of ner good faith and an insult to her love 
— was this pretended absence, during which Raoul, forgetting 
the Rue du Temps-Perdu, had left his little room solitary, to 
mix in the fêtes at Sceaux. Thus Raoul had had but an in- 
stant’s caprice for her, sufficient to induce him to pass a week 
or two in an attic, but he had soon got tired of this life : then 
he had invented the pretext of a journey, declaring that it 
was a misfortune ; but none of this was true. Raoul had 
never quitted Paris — or, if he had, his first visit had not been 
to the Rue du Temps-Perdu. 

When Raoul touched the shore, and she found herself only 
four steps from him, and saw him whom she had supposed to 
be a young provincial offering his arm, in that elegant and 
easy manner, to the proud Madame de Maine herself, her 
strength abandoned her, and with that cry which had gone to 
D’Harmental’s heart, she fainted. On opening her eyes she 
found near her Mademoiselle de Launay, who lavished on her 
every possible attention. She wished that instead of return- 
ing to Paris Bathilde should remain at Sceaux, but she was 
in haste to leave this place where she had suffered so much, 
and begged, with an accent that could not be refused, to be 
allowed to return, and as a carriage was in readiness to take 
her, she went directly. On arriving, Bathilde found Nanette 
waiting for her ; Buvat also had wished to do so, but by 
twelve o’clock he was so sleepy that it was in vain he rubbed 
his eyes, and tried to sing his favourite song ; he could not 
keep awake, and at length he went to bed, telling Nanette 
to let him know the next morning as soon as Bathilde was 
visible. 

Bathilde was delighted to find Nanette alone; BuvaPs 
presence would have been very irksome to her, but as soon 
as she found that there was no one but Nanette, Bathilde 
burst into tears. Nanette had expected to see her young 
mistress return proud and joyous at the triumph which she 
could not fail to obtain, and was distressed to see her in this 
state, but to all her questions Bathilde replied that it was 
nothing, absolutely nothing. Nanette saw that it was no use 
to insist, and went to her room, which was next to Bathilde’s, 
but could not resist the impulse of curiosity, and looking 
through the key-hole, she saw her young mistress kneel down 


230 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


before her little crucifix, and then, as by a sudden impulse 
run to the window, open it, and look opposite. Nanette 
doubted no longer, Bathilde’s grief was somehow connected 
with her love, and it was caused by the young man who lived 
opposite. Nanette was more easy; women pity these griefs, 
but they also know that they may come to a good end. 
Nanette went to sleep much more easy than if she had not 
been able to find out the cause of Bathilde’s tears. 

Bathilde slept badly ; the first griefs and the first joys of 
love have the same results. She woke therefore with sunken 
eyes and pale cheeks. Bathilde would have dispensed with 
seeing Buvat, but he had already asked for her twice, so she 
took courage, and went smiling to speak to him. Buvat, 
however, was not deceived ; he could not fail to notice her 
pale cheeks, and Bathilde’s grief was revealed to him. She 
denied that there was anything the matter. Buvat pretended 
to believe her, but went to the office very uneasy and anxious 
to know what could have happened to her. 

When he was gone, Nanette approached Bathilde, who was 
sitting in her chair with her head leaning on her hand, and 
stood an instant before her, contemplating her with an almost 
maternal love ; then, finding that Bathilde did not speak, she 
herself broke silence. 

“ Are you suffering still, mademoiselle ?” said she. 

Yes, my good Nanette.” . 

“ If you would open the window, I think it would do you 
good.” 

“Oh ! no, Nanette, thank you, the window must remain 
closed.” 

“ You do not know perhaps, mademoiselle?” 

“ Yes, yes, Nanette, I know.” 

“ That the young man opposite returned this morning 

“Well, Nanette?” said Bathilde, raising her head and 
looking at her with severity, “ what is that to me ?” 

“ Pardon, mademoiselle,” said Nanette, “ but I thought — ^ 

“ What did you think ?” 

“ That you regretted his absence, and would be glad of his 
return.” 

“ You were wrong.” 

“ Pardon, mademoiselle, but he appears so distinguished.” 


COUNTERPLOTS, 


23 * 


“ Too much so, Nanette ; a great deal too much so for 
poor Bathilde.” 

“Too distinguished for you, mademoiselle !” cried Nanette, 
“ as if you were not worth all the noblemen in the world ! 
besides, you are noble !” 

“ I know what I appear to be, Nanette — that is to say, a 
poor girl, with whose peace, honour, and love, every noble- 
man thinks he may play with impunity. You see, Nanette, 
that this window must be closed. I must not see this young 
man again.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! Mademoiselle Bathilde, you wish then to kill 
this poor young man with grief? This whole morning he has 
not moved from his window, and looks so sad that it is enough 
to break one’s heart.” 

“ What does his looking sad matter to me ? What has he 
to do with me ? I do not know him. I do not even know 
his name. He is a stranger, who has come here to stay for 
a few days, and who to-morrow may go away again. If I had 
thought anything of him I should have been wrong, Nanette ; 
and, instead of encouraging me in a love which would be 
folly, you ought, on the contrary — supposing that it existed — 
to show me the absurdity and the danger of it.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! mademoiselle, why so ? you must love some 
day, and you may as well love a handsome young man who 
looks like a king, and w’ho must be rich, since he does not 
do anything.” 

“ Well, Nanette, what would you say if this young man 
who appears to you so simple, so loyal, and so good, were 
nothing but a wicked traitor, a liar !” 

“Ah, mon Dieu! mademoiselle, I should say it w'as 
impossible.” 

“ If I told you that this young man who lives in an attic, 
and who show's himself at the window' dressed so simply, was 
yesterday at Sceaux, giving his arm to Madame de Maine, 
dressed as a colonel ?” 

“ I should say, mademoiselle, that at last God is just in 
sending you some one worthy of you. Holy virgin ! a colonel! 
a friend of the Duchesse de Maine I Oh, Mademoiselle 
Bathilde, you will be a countess, I tell you ! and it is not too 
much for you. If Pro'ddence gave every one what they 


232 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


deserve, you would be a duchess, a princess, a queen, yes, 
Queen of France : Madame de Maintenon was 

“ I would not be like her, Nanette.” 

“ I do not say like her ; besides, it is not the king you love, 
mademoiselle.” 

“ I do not love any one, Nanette.” 

“ I am too polite to contradict you ; but never mind, you 
are ill ; and the first remedy for a young person who is ill, is 
air and sun. Look at the poor flowers, when they are shut 
up, they turn pale. Let me open the window, mademoiselle.” 

“ Nanette, I forbid you ; go to your work and leave me.” 

“ Very well, mademoiselle, I will go, since you drive me 
away,” said Nanette, lifting the corner of her apron to her 
eye ; “ but if I were in that young man’s place I know very 
well what I would do.” 

“ And what would you do ?” 

“ I would come and explain myself, and I am sure that 
even if he were wrong you would excuse him.” 

“ Nanette,” said Bathilde, “ if he comes, I forbid you to 
admit him ; do you hear ?” 

“ Very well, mademoiselle ; he shall not be admitted, 
though it is not very polite to turn people away from the 
door.” 

“ Polite or not, you will do as I tell you,” said Bathilde, 
to whom contradiction gave strength ; “ and now go. I wish 
to be alone.” 

Nanette went out 

When she was alone, Bathilde burst into tears, for her 
strength was but pride. She believed herself the most un- 
fortunate woman in the world, as D’Harmental thought him- 
self the most unfortunate man. At four o’clock Buvat 
returned. Bathilde, seeing the traces of uneasiness on his 
good-natured face, tried all she could to tranquillize him. 
She smiled, she joked, she kept him company at table ; but 
all was in vain. After dinner he proposed to Bathilde, as an 
amusement which nothing could resist — to take a walk on 
the terrace. Bathilde, thinking that if she refused Buvat 
would remain with her, accepted, and went up with him into 
his room, but when there, she remembered that she must 
write a letter of thanks to the Abbé Chaulieu, for his kind- 


COUNTERPLOTS, 


233 


ness în presenting her to Madame de Maine ; and, leaving 
her guardian with Mirza, she went down. Shortly after she 
heard Mirza scratching at the door, and went to open it 
Mirza entered with such demonstrations of joy that Bathilde 
understood that something extraordinary must have hap- 
pened, but on looking attentively, she saw the letter tied to 
her collar. As this was the second she had brought, Bathilde 
had no difficulty in guessing the writer. The temptation was 
too strong to be resisted, so she detached the paper with one 
hand, which trembled as she remembered that it probably 
contained the destiny of her life, while with the other she 
caressed Mirza, who, standing on her hind legs, appeared 
delighted to become so important a personage. Bathilde. 
opened the letter, and looked at it twice without being able 
to decipher a single line. There was a mist before her eyes. 

The letter, while it said a great deal, did not say quite 
enough. It protested innocence and asked for pardon ; it 
spoke of strange circumstances requiring secrecy ; but, above 
all, it said that the writer was madly in love. The result 
was, that, without completely reassuring her, it yet did her 
good. Bathilde, however, with a remnant of pride, deter- 
mined not to relent till the next day. Since Raoul confessed 
himself guilty, he should be punished. Bathilde did not re- 
member that half of this punishment recoiled upon herself. 
The effect of the letter, incomplete as it was, was such that 
when Buvat returned from the terrace he thought Bathilde 
looked infinitely better, and began to believe what she her- 
self had told him in the morning, that her agitation was only 
caused by the emotion of the day before. Buvat went to his 
own room at eight o’clock, leaving Bathilde free to retire at 
any hour she lîked, but she had not the least inclination to 
sleep ; for a long time she watched, contented and happy, for 
she knew that her neighbour’s window was open, and by this 
she guessed his anxiety. Bathilde at length dreamed that 
Raoul was at her feet, and that he gave her such good reasons 
that it was she, in her turn, who asked for pardon. 

Thus in the morning she awoke convinced that she had 
been dreadfully severe, and wondering how she could have 
had the courage to do so. It followed that her first move- 
ment was to run to the window and open it ; but perceiving, 


234 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


through an almost imperceptible opening, the young man at 
his window, she stopped short. Would not this be too com- 
plete an avowal ? It would be better to wait for Nanette ; 
she would open the window naturally, and in this way her 
neighbour would not be so able to pride himself on his con- 
quest. Nanette arrived, but she had been too much scolded 
the day before about this window to risk a second representa- 
tion of the same scene. She took the greatest pains to avoid 
even touching the curtains. Bathilde was ready to cry. Buvat 
came down as usual to take his coffee with Bathilde, and she 
hoped that he at least would ask why she kept herself so shut 
up, and give her an opportunity to open the window. Buvat, 
however, had received a new order for the classification of 
some manuscripts, and was so pre-occupied, that he finished 
his coffee and left the room without once remarking that the 
curtains were closed. 

For the first time Bathilde felt almost angry with him, and 
thought he must have paid her very little attention not to 
discover that she must be half-stifled in such a close room. 
What was she to do? Tell Nanette to open the window? 
She would not do it. Open it herself she could not She 
must then wait ; but till when ? Till the next day, or the 
day after perhaps, and what would Raoul think ? Would he 
not become impatient at this exaggerated severity ? Suppose 
he should again leave for a fortnight, for a month, for six 
weeks — for ever ; Bathilde would die, she could not live 
without RaouL Two hours passed thus ; Bathilde tried every- 
thing, her embroidery, her harpsichord, her drawing, but she 
could do nothing. Nanette came in — a slight hope returned 
to her, but it was only to ask leave to go out. Bathilde 
signed to her that she could go. Nanette was going to the 
Faubourg St. Antoine ; she would be away two hours. What 
was she to do during these two hours ? It would have been 
so delightful to pass them at the window. 

Bathilde sat down and drew out the letter; she knew it by 
heart, but yet she read it again. It was so tender, so 
passionate, so evidently from the heart. Oh ! if she could 
receive a second letter. This was an idea ; she looked at 
Mirza, the graceful little messenger ; she took her in her arms, 
and then, trembling as if she were about to commit a crime, 


7 HE SEVENTH HE A FEN. 


235 

she went to open the outer door. A young man was stand- 
ing before this door, reaching out his hand towards the bell. 
Bathilde uttered a cry of joy, and the young man a cry of 
love — it was RaouL 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE SEVENTH HEAVEN. 

Bathilde made some steps backwards, for she had nearly 
fallen into Raoul’s arms. Raoul, having shut the door, 
followed Bathilde into the room. Their two names, ex- 
changed in a double cry, escaped their lips. Their hands 
met in an electric clasp, and all was forgotten. These two, 
who had so much to say to each other, yet remained for a 
long time silent ; at length Bathilde exclaimed, — 

“ Oh, Raoul, how I have suffered !” 

And I,” said D’Harmental, “ who have appeared to you 
guilty, and am yet innocent !” 

“ Innocent !” cried Bathilde, to v/hom, by a natural reaction, 
all her doubts returned. 

** Yes, innocent,” replied the chevalier. 

And then he told Bathilde all of his life that he dared to 
tell her — his duel with Lafare ; how he had, after that, hidden 
in the Rue du Temps-Perdu ; how he had seen Bathilde, and 
loved her; his astonishment at discovering successively in 
her the elegant woman, the skilful painter, the accomplished 
musician ; his joy when he began to think that she was not 
indifferent to him; then he told her how lie had received, as 
colonel of Carabineers, the order to go to Brittany, and on 
his return was obliged to render an account of his mission 
to the Duchesse de Maine before returning to Paris. He 
had gone directly to Sceaux, expecting only to leave his 
despatches in passing, when he had found himself in the 
midst of the fête, in which he had been obliged unwillingly 
to take a part. This recital was finished by expressions of 
regret, and such protestations of fidelity and love, that 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


236 

Bathilde almost forgot the beginning of his discourse in 
listening to the end. 

It was now her turn. She also had a long history to tell 
D’Harmental ; it was the history of her life. With a certain 
pride in proving to her lover that she was worthy of him, she 
showed herself as a child with her father and mother, then 
an orphan and abandoned ; then appeared Buvat with his 
plain face and his sublime heart, and she told all his kind- 
ness, all his love to his pupil ; she passed in review her 
careless childhood, and her pensive youth ; then she arrived 
at the time when she first saw D’Harmental, and here she 
stopped and smiled, for she felt that he had nothing more to 
learn. Yet D’Harmental insisted on hearing it all from her 
own lips, and would not spare her a single detail. Two 
hours passed thus like two seconds, and they were still there 
when some one rang at the door. Bathilde looked at the 
clock which was in the corner of the room ; it was six minutes 
past four ; there was no mistake, it was Buvat. Bathilde’s 
first movement was one of fear, but Raoul reassured her, 
smiling, for he had the pretext with which the Abbé Brigaud 
had furnished him. The two lovers exchanged a last grasp 
of the hand, then Bathilde went to open the door to her 
guardian, who, as usual, kissed her on the forehead, then, 
on entering the room, perceived D’Harmental. Buvat was 
astonished ; he had never before found any man with his 
pupil. Buvat fixed on him his astonished eyes and waited ; 
he fancied he had seen the young man before. D’Harmental 
advanced towards him with that ease of which people of a 
certain class have not even an idea, 

“ It is to Monsieur Buvat,” he said, “ that I have the 
honour of speaking?” 

“To myself, sir,” said Buvat, starting at the sound of a 
voice which he thought he recognised ; “ but the honour is 
on my side.” , 

“ You know the Abbé Brigaud ?” continued D’Harmental { 

“Yes, perfectly, monsieur, the that the 

of Madame Denis, is he not ?” 

“Yes,” replied D’Harmental, smiling; “ the confessor to 
Madame Denis.” 

Yes, I know him. A clever man.” 


THE i^EVENTH HEAVEN, 237 

“ Did you not once apply to him to get some copies to 
make ?” 

“ Yes, monsieur, for I am a copyist, at your service.” 

“ Well,” said D’Harmental, “ this dear Abbé Brigaud, who 
is my guardian (that you may know who you are speaking 
to), has found an excellent customer for you.” 

“ Ah ! truly ; pray take a seat, monsieur.” 

“Thank you.” 

“ And who is the customer ?” 

“The Prince de Listhnay, Rue du Bac, no.** 

“ A prince, monsieur, a prince !” 

“Yes ; a Spaniard, who is in correspondence with the 
Madrid Mercury^ and sends all the news from Paris.” 

“ Oh ! that is a great honour.” 

“ It will give you some trouble, however, for all the 
despatches are in Spanish.” 

“Diable!” said Buvat. 

“ Do you know Spanish ?” asked D’Harmental. 

“No, monsieur; I do not think so, at least.” 

“Never mind,” continued the chevalier, smiling; “one 
need not know a language to copy it.” 

“ I could copy Chinese, monsieur ; caligraphy, like draw- 
ing, is an imitative art.” 

“ And I know that in this respect. Monsieur Buvat,” re- 
plied D’Harmental, “ you are a great artist.” 

“Monsieur,” said Buvat, “you embarrass me. May I 
ask, without indiscretion, at what time I shall find his high- 
ness ?” 

“ What highness ?” 

“ His highness the prince — I do not remember the name 
you said,” replied Buvat. 

“ Ah ! the Prince de Listhnay.” 

“ Himself.” 

“He is not highness, my dear Monsieur Buvat.” 

“ Oh I I thought all princes ” 

“ This is only a prince of the third order, and he will be 
quite satisfied if you call him monseigneur.” 

“ You think so ?” 

“I am sure of it.” 

“ And when shall I find him ?” 


238 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ After your dinner; from five to half-past five. You re- 
member the address ?” 

“Yes; Rue du Bac, no. I will be there, monsieur.” 

“ Now,” said D’Harmental, “ au revoir ! And you, made* 
moiselle,” said he, turning to Bathilde, “ receive my thanks 
for your kindness in keeping me company while I waited for 
M. Buvat — a kindness for which I shall be eternally grateful.” 

And D’Harmental took his leave, while Bathilde re- 
mained astonished at his ease and assurance in such a 
situation. 

“ This young man is really very amiable,” said Buvat. 

“ Yes, very,” said Bathilde, mechanically. 

“ But it is an extraordinary thing; I think I have seen him 
before.” 

“ It is possible,” said Bathilde. 

“And his voice — I am sure I know his voice.” 

Bathilde started ; for she remembered the evening when 
Buvat had returned frightened from the adventure in the 
Rue des Bons Enfants, and D’Harmental had not spoken of 
that adventure. At this moment Nanette entered, announc- 
ing dinner. Buvat instantly went into the other room. 

“Well, mademoiselle,” said Nanette softly, “the hand- 
some young man came, then, after all ?” 

“Yes, Nanette, yes,” answered Bathilde, raising her çyes 
to heaven with an expression of infinite gratitude, “ and I 
am very happy.” 

She passed in to the dining-room, where Buvat, who had 
put down his hat and stick on a chair, was waiting for her, 
and slapping his thighs with his hands, as was his custom in 
his moments of extreme satisfaction. 

As to D’Harmental, he was no less happy than Bathilde ; 
he was loved— he was sure of it ; Bathilde had told him so, 
with the same pleasure she had felt on hearing him make the 
same decimation. He was loved ; not by a poor orphan, 
not by a little grisette, but by a young girl of rank, whose 
father and mother had occupied an honourable position at 
court. There were, then, no obstacles to their union, there 
was no social interval between them. It is true that D’Har- 
mental forgot the conspiracy, which might at any time open 
an abyss under his feet and engulf him. Bathilde had no 


THE SEVENTH HEAVEN. 


239 


doubts for the future; and when Buvat, after dinner, took his 
hat and cane to go to the Prince de Listhnay’s, she first fell 
on her. knees to thank God, and then, without hesitation, 
went to open the window so long closed. D’Harmental 
was still at his. They had very soon settled their plans, and 
taken Nanette into their confidence. Every day, when Buvat 
was gone, D’Harmental was to come and stay two hours with 
Bathilde. The rest of the time would be passed at the win 
dows, or, if by chance these must be closed, they could write 
to each other. Towards seven o’clock they saw Buvat turn- 
ing the corner of the Rue Montmartre ; he carried a roll of 
paper in one hand, and his cane in the other, and by his 
important air, it was easy to see that he had spoken to the 
prince himself. D’Harmental closed his window. Bathilde 
had seen Buvat set out with some uneasiness, for she feared 
that this story of the Prince de Listhnay was only an inven- 
tion to explain D’Harmental’s presence. The joyous expres- 
sion of Buvat’s face, however, quite reassured her. 

“Well !” said she. 

“ Well ! I have seen his highness.’' 

“But, you know,” answered Bathilde, “that M. Raoul 
said the Prince de Listhnay had no right to that title, and 
was only a prince of the third order.” * 

“I guarantee him of the first,” said Buvat, “sabre de 
bois ! a man of five feet ten, who throws his money about, 
and pays for copies at fifteen francs the page, and has given 
twenty-five louis in advance !” 

Then another fear began to come into Bathilde’s mind, 
that this pretended customer, whom Raoul had found for 
Buvat, was only a pretext to induce him to accept money. 
This fear had in it something humiliating ; Bathilde turned 
her eyes towards D’Harmental’s window, but she saw D’Har- 
mental looking at her with so much love through the glass, 
that she thought of nothing but looking at him in return, 
which she did for so long, that Buvat came forward to see 
what was attracting her attention ; but D’Harmental, seeing 
him, let fall the curtain. 

“Well, then,” said Bathilde, wishing to turn off his atten- 
tion, “ you are content ?” 

“ Quite ; but I must tell you one thing.** 


240 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


“What is it?*» 

“ You remember that I told you that I thought I recog- 
nised the face and voice of this young man, but could not 
tell you where I had seen or heard them ?” 

“Yes, you told me so.” 

“ Well, it suddenly struck me to-day, as I was crossing the 
Rue des Bons Enfants, that it was the same young man 
whom I saw on that terrible night, of which 1 cannot think 
without trembling.” 

“ What folly !” said Bathilde, trembling, however, herself. 

“ I was on the point of returning, however, for I thought 
this prince might be some brigand chief, and that they were 
going to entice me into a cavern; but as I never cany any 
money, I thought that my fears were exaggerated, ar.d so I 
went on.” 

“ And now you are convinced, I suppose,” replied Ba- 
thilde, “ that this poor young man, who came from the Abbé 
Brigaud, has no connection with him of the Rue des Bons 
Enfants.” 

“ Certainly, a captain of thieves could have no connection 
with his highness ; and now,” continued Buvat, “ you must 
excuse me if I do not stay with you this evening. I pro- 
mised his highness to begin the copies directly, and I must 
do so.” 

Buvat went into his room, leaving Bathilde free to resume 
the interrupted conversation. Heaven only knows at what 
hour the windows were closed. 


FENELON* s SUCCESSOR. 


«41 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 
fénélon’s successor. 

Thu events which were to rouse our lovers from their happy 
idleness were preparing in silence. The Due de Richelieu 
had kept his promise. The Marshal Villeroy, who had in- 
tended to remain a week away from the Tuileries, was recalled 
on the fourth day by a letter from his wife, who wrote to him 
that his presence was more than ever necessary near the king, 
the measles having declared itself at Paris, and having already 
attacked several persons in the Palais Royal. Monsieur de 
Villeroy came back directly, for, it will be remembered, that 
all those successive deaths which three or four years before 
had afflicted the kingdom, had been attributed to the measles, 
and the marshal would not lose this opportunity of parading 
hrs vigilance. It was his privilege, as governor of the king, 
never to leave him except by an order from himself, and to 
remain with him whoever entered, even though it was the 
regent himself. It was especially with regard to the regent 
that the marshal affected such extraordinary precaution; 
and as this suited the hatred of Madame de Maine and her 
party, they praised Monsieur de Villeroy highly, and spread 
abroad a report that he had found on the chimneypiece of 
Louis XV. some poisoned bon-bons which had been placed 
there. 

The result of all this was an increase of calumny against 
the Due d’Orleans, and of importance on the part of the 
marshal, who persuaded the young king that he owed him 
his life. By this means he acquired great influence over the 
king, who, indeed, had confidence in no one but M. de 
Villeroy and M. de Fréjus. M. de Villeroy was then the man 
they wanted for the message ; and it was agreed that the 
following Monday, a day when the regent rarely saw the 
king, the two letters of Philip V. should be given to him, 
and M. de Villeroy should profit by his solitude with the 


242 


THE CONSPIRATORS 


king to make him sign the convocation of the States-General, 
and that it should be made public the next day before the 
hour of the regent’s visit, so that there should be no means 
ot drawing back. 

Whilst all these things were plotting against him, the 
regent was leading his ordinary life in the midst of his work, 
his studies, and his pleasures, and, above all, of his family 
bickerings. As we have said, three of his daughters gave 
him serious trouble. Madame de Berry, whom he loved the 
best, because he had saved her when the most celebrated 
doctors had given her up, throwing off all restraint, lived 
publicly with Riom, whom she threatened to marry at every 
observation her father made. A strange threat, but which, 
if carried out, would at that time havecaused far more scandal 
than the amours, which, at any other time, such a marriage 
would have sanctified. 

Mademoiselle de Chartres persisted in her resolution of 
becoming a nun, although she still, under her noviciate, con- 
tinued to enjoy all the pleasures she could manage to intro- 
duce into the cloister. She had got in her cell her guns and 
pistols, and a magnificent assortment of fireworks, with which 
she amused her young friends every evening ; but she would 
not leave the convent, where her father went every Wednes- 
day to visit her. 

The third person of the family who gave him uneasiness 
was Mademoiselle de Valois, whom he suspected of being 
Richelieu’s mistress, but without ever being able to obtain 
certain proof — although he had put his police on the watch, 
and had himself more than once paid her visits at hours 
when he thought it most probable he should meet him. 
These suspicions were also increased by her refusal to marry 
the Prince de Dombe, an excellent match, enriched as he was 
by the spoils of La Grande Mademoiselle. The regent had 
seized a new opportunity of assuring himself whether this 
refusal were caused by her antipathy to the young prince, or 
her love for the duke, by welcoming the overtures which 
Pléneuf, his ambassador at Turin, had made for a marriage 
between the beautiful Charlotte Aglaë and the Prince de 
Piedmont. Mademoiselle de Valois rebelled again, but this 
time in vain ; the regent, contrary to his usual easy good- 


FENELON^ s SUCCESSOR, 


243 


tiess, insisted, and the lovers had no hope, when an unex- 
pected event broke it off. Madame, the mother of the 
regent, with her German frankness, had written to the Queen 
of Sicily, one of her most constant correspondents, that she 
loved her too much not to warn her that the princess, who 
was destined for the young prince, had a lover, and that that 
lover was the Due de Richelieu. It may be supposed that 
this declaration put an end to the scheme. 

The regent was at first excessively angry at this result of 
his mother’s mania for writing letters, but he soon began to 
laugh at this epistolary escapade, and his attention was called 
off for the time by an important subject, namely, that of 
Dubois, who was determined to become an archbishop. We 
have seen how, on Dubois’ return from London, the thing had 
first been broached under the form of a joke, and how the 
regent had received the recommendation of King George ; 
but Dubois was not a man to be beaten by a first refusal 
Cam bray was vacant by the death of the Cardinal la Tre- 
mouille, and was one of the richest archbishoprics in the 
Church. A hundred and fifty thousand francs a year were 
attached to it, and it was difficult to say whether Dubois was 
most tempted by the title of successor to Fénélon, or by the 
rich benefice. 

Dubois, on the first opportunity, brought it again on the 
tapis. The regent again tried to turn it off with a joke, but 
Dubois became more positive, and more pressing. The 
regent, thinking to settle it, defied Dubois to find a prelate 
who would consecrate him. 

“ Is it only that ?” cried Dubois, joyously, “ then I have 
the man at hand.” 

“ Impossible !” said the regent. 

“ You will see,” said Dubois ; and he ran out. 

In five minutes he returned. 

Well ?” asked the regent. 

Well,” answered Dubois, “ I have got him.” 

“ And who is the scoundrel who is willing to consecrate 
such another scoundrel as you ?” 

“ Your first almoner, monsieur,* 

“ The Bishop of Nantes 1” 

“ Neither more nor less.” 


1 6 — a 


244 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ Tressan T 

“ Himself.” 

“ Impossible !” 

Here he is.” 

And at this moment the door was opened, and the Bishop 
of Nantes was announced. 

Come,” cried Dubois, running to him, his royal high 
ness honours us both in naming me Archbishop of Cambray, 
and in choosing you to consecrate me.” 

“ M. de Nantes,” asked the regent, “ is it true that you 
consent to make the abbé an archbishop ?” 

“Your highness’s wishes are commands for me.” 

“ Do you know that he is neither deacon, archdeacon, nor 
priest ?” 

“Never mind, monseigneur,” cried Dubois, “here is M. 
de Tressan, who will tell you all these orders may be con- 
ferred in a day.” 

“ But there is no example of such a thing.” 

“ Yes, Saint Ambloise.” 

“ Then, my dear abbé,” said the regent, laughing, “ if you 
have all the fathers of the Church with you, I have nothing 
more to say, and I abandon you to M. de Tressan.” 

“ I will give him back to you with the cross and mitre, 
monseigneur.” 

“ But you must have the grade of licentiate,” continued 
the regent, who began to be amused at the discussion. 

“I have a promise from the University of Orleans.” 

“But you must have attestations.” 

“ Is there not Besons ?” 

“ A certificate of good life and manners.” 

“ I will have one signed by Noailles.” 

“No, there I defy you, abbé.” 

“ Then your highness will give me one. The signature of 
the regent of France must have as much weight at Rome as 
that of a wicked cardinal.” 

“ Dubois,” said the regent, “a little more respect, if you 
please, for the princes of the Church.” 

“ You are right, monseigneur. There is no saying what 
one may become.” 

“ You, a cardinal !” cried the regent, laughing. 


FENEION^S SUCCESSOR. 


245 

“ Certainly. I do not see why I should not be pope some 
day. 

I “ Well ! Borgia was one.’* 

“ May God give us both a long life, monseigneur, and you 
will see that, and many other things.” 

“ Pardieu !” said the regent, “ you know that I laugh at 
death.” 

Alas, too much.” 

“ Well, you will make a poltroon of me by curiosity.” 

“It would be none the worse ; and to commence, mon- 
seigneur would do well to discontinue his nocturnal ex- 
cursions.” 

“ Why?” 

“In the first place oecause they endanger his life.” 

“ What does that matter ?” 

“ Then for another reason.” 

“ What ?” 

“ Because,” said Dubois, assuming a hypocritical air, “ they 
are a subject of scandal for the Church 1” 

“Go to the devil.” 

“You see, monsieur,” said Dubois, turning to Tressan, 
“ in the midst of what libertines and hardened sinners I am 
obliged to live. I hope that your eminence will consider 
my position, and will not be too severe upon me.” 

“ We will do our best, monseigneur,” said Tressan. 

“ And when ?” asked Dubois, who was unwilling to lose 
an hour. 

“ As soon as you are ready.” 

“ I ask for three days.” 

“ Very well ; on the fourth I shall be at your orders.” 

To-day is Saturday. On Wednesday then.” 

“ On Wednesday,” answered Tressan. 

“ Only I warn you beforehand, abbé,” answered the regent, 
“ that one person of some importance will be absent at your 
consecration.” 

“ And who will dare to do me that injury ?” 

“I shall.” 

“You, monseigneur 1 You will be there, and in your 
official gallery.” 

“ I say not,” 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


246 

Ï bet a thousand louis.’* 

And I give you my word of honour.’* 

“ I double my bet” 

“ Insolent !” 

“ On Wednesday, M. de Tressan. At my consecration, 
monseigneur.” 

And Dubois left the room highly delighted, and spread 
about everywhere the news of his nomination. Still Dubois 
was wrong on one point, namely, the adhesion of the Car- 
dinal de Noailles. No menace or promise could draw from 
him the attestation to good life and morals which Dubois 
flattered himself he should obtain at his hands It is true 
that he was the only one who dared to make this holy and 
noble opposition to the scandal with which the Church was 
menaced. The University of Orleans gave the licences, and 
everything was ready on the appointed day. Dubois left at 
five o’clock in the morning, in a hunting-dress, for Pautoix, 
where he found M. de Tressan, who, according to his promise, 
bestowed on hkn the deacon ship, the archdeaconship, and 
the priesthood. At twelve all was finished ; and at four, 
after having attended the regent’s council, which was held at 
the old Louvre in consequence of the measles having, as we 
have said, attacked the Tuileries, Dubois returned home in 
the dress of an archbishop. 

The first person whom he saw in his room was La Fillon. 
In her double quality of attachée to his secret police and to 
his public loves, she had admittance to his room at all hours ; 
and in spite of the solemnity of the day, as she had said that 
she had business of importance to communicate, they had not 
dared to refuse her. 

“ Ah !” cried Dubois, on perceiving his old friend, ** a lucky 
meeting.” 

“ Pardieu ! my dear gossip,” answered La Fillon, “ if you 
are ungrateful enough to forget your old friends I am not 
stupid enough to forget mine, particularly when they rise in 
the world.” 

“ Ah ! tell me,” said Dubois, beginning to pull off his 
sacerdotal ornaments, “ do you count on continuing to call 
me your gossip now that I am an archbishop ?” 

“ More than ever. And I count on it so strongly that the 


FENELON^ s SUCCESSOR. 


247 


first time the regent enters my house I shall ask him for an 
abbey, that we may still be on an equality one with the 
other 

“He comes to your house then ? the libertine !” 

Alas ! no more, my dear gossip. Ah ! the good time is 
passed. But I hope that, thanks to you, it will return, and 
that the house will feel your elevation.” 

“ Oh ! my poor gossip,” said Dubois, stooping down in 
order that La Fillon might unclasp his frock, “ you see that 
now things are much changed, and that I can no longer visit 
you as I used to.” 

“ You are proud. Philippe comes there. * 

“Philippe is only regent of France, and I am an archbishop. 
Do you understand ? I want a mistress at a house where I 
can go without scandal ; like Madame de Tencin, for 
example. ’ 

“ Yes, who will deceive you for Richelieu.” 

“And how, on the contrary, do you know that she will 
not deceive Richelieu for me ?” 

“ Hey-day ! and will she manage your police and your love 
at the same time ?” 

“Perhaps. But àpropos of police,” answered Dubois, 
continuing to undress, “ do you know that yours have slept 
infernally during three or four months, and that if this con- 
tinues I shall be obliged to withdraw you from the superin- 
tendence ?” 

“ Ah 1 diable 1” cried La Fillon ; “ this is the way you 
treat your old friends. I come to make a revelation ; well, 
you shall not know it.” 

“ A revelation ! and what about ?” 

“ Pshaw 1 take away my superintendence ; scoundrel that 
you are.” 

“ Is it relating to Spain?” asked the archbishop, frowning, 
and feeling instinctively that the danger came from thence. 

“ It relates to nothing at all. Good evening.” 

And La Fillon made towards the door. 

“Come here,” said Dubois, stepping towards his desk; 
and the two old friends, who understood each other so well, 
looked towards each other and laughed. 

“ Come, come,” said La Fillon, “ I see that all is not lost. 


24S 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


and that there is yet some good in you. Come, open this 
little desk and show me what it contains, and I will open my 
mouth and show you what I have in my heart.’' 

Dubois took out a rouleau of a hundred louis, and showed 
it to La Fillon. 

“ How much is it ?” said she ; come, tell the truth ; how- 
ever, I shall count after you, to be sure.” 

“Two thousand four hundred francs 3 that is a pretty oenny, 
it seems to me.” 

“ Yes, for an abbé, but not for an archbishop.” 

“ Do you not know to what an extent the finances are 
involved ?” 

“ Well, what does that matter, you humbug, when Law is 
going to make millions for us ?” 

“ Would you like in exchange ten thousand francs in 
Mississippi bonds ?” 

“ Thanks, my dear, I prefer the hundred louis ; give them 
to me ; I am a good woman, and another day you will be 
more generous.” 

“ Well, what have you to tell me? Come.” 

“ First promise me one thing.” 

“What is it ?” 

“ That as it is about an old friend, he shall come to no 
harm.” 

“ But if your old friend is a beggar who deserves to be 
hanged, why should you cheat him of his due ?” 

“ I have my own reasons.” 

“ Go along ; I promise nothing.” 

“Well, good evening then. Here are the hundred louis.” 

“Ah ! you are getting scrupulous all at once.” 

“ Not at all; but I am under obligations to this man ; he 
started me in the world.” 

“ He may boast of having done a good thing for society 
that day.” ^ ^ 

“ Rather, my friend ; and he shall never have cause to 
repent it, for I will not speak a word to-day unless his life is 
safe.” 

“ Well, safe it shall be, I promise you ; are you content ?” 

“ By what do you promise it me ?” 

“ On the faith of an honest man.” 


FENELON* s SUCCESSOR, 


249 


“ Ah î you are going to deceive me.” 

“ Do you know that you are very tiresome ?’* 

“Oh ! I am very tiresome. Well, good-bye.** 

“ Gossip, I will have you arrested.” 

“What do I care?” 

“You shall be sent to prison.” 

“ That is a good joke.” 

“ I will leave you to die there.” 

“ Till you do it yourself. It will not be long.* 

“ Well, what do you want ?” 

“My captain’s life.” 

“You shall have it.” 

“ On what faith ?” 

“ On the faith of an archbishop.” 

“ I want a better.” 

“ On the faith of an abbé.” 

“Better still.” 

“ On the faith of Dubois.” 

“ That will do.” 

“ First, I must tell you that my captain is the most out aft 
elbows of any in the kingdom.” 

“ Diablè ! he has a rival.” 

“ Still, he will have the prize.” 

“ Continue.” 

“ Well, you must know that lately he has become as rich 
as Croesus.” 

“ He must have robbed some millionnaire.” 

“ Incapable. Killed may be — but robbed ! What do you 
take him for ?” 

“ Do you know where the money comes from ?” 

“ Do you know the different coinages ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Where does this come from, then ?” 

“Ah ! a Spanish doubloon.” 

“ And without alloy, with the effigy of King Charles II. 
Doubloons which are worth forty-eight francs if they are 
worth a penny, and which run from his pockets like a stream, 
poor dear fellow.” 

“ And when did he begin to sweat gold ?” 

“ The day after the regent was nearly carried off in the 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


250 

Rue des Bons Enfants. Do you understand the apologue, 
gossip ?” 

“ Yes ; and why have you not told me before to-day ?” 

“ Because his pockets were full then ; they are now nearly 
empty, which is the time to find out where he will fill them 
j again.” 

I “ And you wished to give him time to empty them ?” 

“ Well, all the world must live.” » 

“ And so they shall ; even your captain. But you under- 
stand that I must know what he does ?” 

“ Day by day.” 

“ And which of your girls does he love ?” 

“All when he has money.” 

“ And when he has none ?” 

“ La Normande.” 

“ I know her ; she is as sharp as a needle.” 

“ Yes, but you must not reckon on her.” 

“ Why not?’^ 

“She loves him, the little fooL” 

“ Ah ! he is a lucky fellow.” 

“ And he merits it. He has got the heart of a prince, not 
like you, old miser.” 

“ Oh ! you know that sometimes I am worse than the pro- 
digal son, and it depends on you to make me so.” 

“ I will do my best.” 

“ Then day by day I shall know what your captain does ?” 
“ You shall.” 

“ On what faith ?” 

“ On the faith of an honest woman.” 

“Something better.” 

“ On the faith of Filloa” 

“That will do.” 

Adieu, monseigneur the archbishop.” 

“ Adieu, gossip.” 

La Fillon was going towards the door, when at that moment 
an usher centered. 

“ Monseigneur,” said he, “ here is a man who wants to 
speak to your eminence.” 

“ And who is he, idiot ?” 

“ An employé of the royal library, who, in his spare time, 
makes copies.” 


FENELON* s SUCCESSOR, 


251 


** And what does he want ?” 

“He says that he has an important revelation to make to 
your eminence.” 

“ Oh ! it is some poor fellow begging.” 

“ No. monseigneur ; he says that it is a political affair.” 

“ Diable ! about what F’ 

“ Relative to Spain.” 

“ Send him in ; and you, gossip, go into this closet.” 

“What for?” 

“ Suppose my writer and your captain should know each 
other ?” 

“ Ah, that would be droll.” 

“ Come, get in quickly.” 

La Fillon entered the closet which Dubois showed her. 

An instant after\vards, the usher opened the door and 
announced Monsieur Jean Buvat. 

We must now show how this important personage came to 
be received in private audience by the Archbishop of 
Cambray. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE PRINCE DE LISTHNAV’S ACCOMPLICE. 

We left Buvat going up to his own room, with his papers in 
his hand, to fulfil his promise to the Prince de Listhnay, and 
..his promise was so scrupulously kept, that by seven o’clock 
the next evening the copy was finished and taken to the Rue 
du Baa He then received from the same august hands some 
more work, which he returned with the same punctuality , sc 
that the Prince de Listhnay, feeling confidence in a man who 
had given such proofs of exactitude, gave him at once suffi- 
cient papers to necessitate an interval of three or four days 
between this interview and the next. Buvat was delighted 
with this mark of confidence, and, on his return, set himself 
gaily to his work ; and, although he found that he did not 
understand a word of Spanish, he could now read it fluently, 
and had become so accustomed to it, that he felt quite dis- 


25 ^ THE CONSPIRATORS, 

appointed when he found amongst the copies one all in 
French. It had no number, and almost appeared to have 
slipped in by mistake ; but he resolved, nevertheless, to copy 
it. He began with these lines ; 

“ Confidential. 

“ For his Excellency Monsieur Alberoni in person. 

“ Nothing is more important than to make sure of the 
places near the Pyrenees, and of the noblemen who reside in 
these cantons.” 

“ In these cantons !” repeated Buvat, after having written 
it ; then, taking a hair from his pen, he continued ; 

“ To gain or master the garrison of Bayonne.” 

“ What is that ?” said Buvat. “ Is not Bayonne a French 
town ? Let us see — let us see and he continued : 

“ The Marquis de P is governor of D One 

knows the intentions of that nobleman ; when it is decided, 
it will be necessary for him to triple his expenditure, in order 
to attract the aristocracy : he ought to scatter rewards. 

“In Normandy, Charenton is an important post Pursue 
the same course with the governor of that town as with the 

Marquis of P ; go further — promise his officers suitable 

rewards. 

“ Do the same in all the provinces.” 

“ Hallo I” cried Buvat, re-reading what he had just written ; 
“what does this mean? It seems to me that it would be 
prudent to read it all before going further.” 

He read : 

“To supply this expenditure one ought to be able to 
reckon on at least three hundred thousand francs the first 
month, and afterwards a hundred thousand per month, paid 
to the day.” 

“ Paid to the day !” murmured Buvat, breaking off. “ It 
is evidently not by France that these payments are to be 
made, since France is so poor, that she has not paid me my 
nine hundred francs’ salary for five years. Let us see — let 
us see and he recommenced : 

“That expenditure, which will cease at the peace, will 
enable his Catholic majesty to act with certainty in case of 
war. 

“ Spain will only be an auxiliary. The army of Philip V. 
is in France.” 


THE PRINCE DE LISTIINAY^S ACCOMPLICE, 253 

** What ! what ! what !” cried Buvat ; and I did not even 
know that it had crossed the frontier.” 

The army of Philip V. is in France. A body of about 
ten thousand Spaniards is more than sufficient, with the pre- 
sence of the king. 

“ But we must be able to count on being able to seduce 
over at least half of the Ducd’Orleans’ army (Buvat trembled). 
This is the most important, and cannot be done without money. 
A present of one hundred thousand francs is necessary for 
each battalion or squadron. 

“ Twenty battalions would be two millions ; with that sum 
one might form a trustworthy army, and destroy that of the 
enemy. 

“ It is almost certain, that the subjects most devoted to the 
King of Spain will not be employed in the army which will 
.march against him. Let them disperse themselves through 
the provinces ; there they will act usefully. To re-supply 
them with a character — if they have none — it will be neces- 
sary for his Catholic majesty to send his orders in blank, for 
his minister in Paris to fill up. 

“ In consequence of the multiplicity of orders, it would be 
better if the ambassador had the power to sign for the King 
of Spain. 

“ It would be well, moreover, if his majesty were to sign 
his orders as a French prince ; the title is his own. 

“ Prepare funds for an army of thirty thousand men, whom 
his majesty will find brave, skilful, and disciplined. 

“ This money should arrive in France at the end of May, 
or the commencement of June, and be distributed directly 
in the capitals of provinces, such as Nantes, Bayonne, etc. 

“ Do not allow the French ambassador to leave Spain. 
His presence will answer for the safety of those who declare 
themselves.” 

“ Sabre de bois !” cried Buvat, rubbing his eyes ; “ but 
this is a conspiracy — a conspiracy against the person of the 
regent, and against the safety of the kingdom. Oh ! oh 1” 

Buvat fell into profound meditation. 

Indeed the position was critical. Buvat mixed up in a 
conspiracy — Buvat charged with a state secret — Buvat hold- 
ing in his hands, perhaps, the fate of nations ; a smaller 


254 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


thing would have thrown him into a state of strange per* 
plexity 

Thus seconds, minutes, hours flowed away, and Buvat 
remained on his chair, his head drooping, his eyes fixed on 
the floor, and perfectly still. From time to time, however, a 
deep breath — like an expression of astonishment — escaped 
his breast. 

Ten o'clock, eleven — midnight sounded. Buvat thought 
that the night would bring him aid, and he determined to go 
to bed. It is needless to say that his copying came to an 
end, when he saw that the original was assuming an illegal 
character. 

Buvat could not sleep ; the poor fellow tossed from side 
to side, but scarcely had he s’ ut his eyes, before he saw 
this horrible plan of the conspiracy written upon the wall in 
letters of fire. Once or twice, overcome by fatigue, he fell 
asleep \ but he had no sooner lost consciousness, than he 
dreamed, the first time that he was arrested by the watch as 
a conspirator ; the second that he was stabbed by the con- 
spirators themselves. The first time Buvat awoke trembling ; 
the second time bathed in perspiration. These two impres- 
sions had been so terrible, that he lighted his candle, and 
determined to wait for day, without another attempt to sleep. 

The day came, but, far from dispelling the phantoms of 
the night, it only gave a more terrific reality. At the least 
noise Buvat trembled. Some one knocked at the street- 
door. Buvat thought he should faint. Nanette opened his 
room door, and he uttered a cry. Nanette ran to him, and 
asked what was the matter, but he contented himself with 
shaking his head, and answering, with a sigh, — 

‘‘Ah, my poor Nanette, we live in very sad times.** 

He stopped directly, fearing he had said too much. He 
was too pre-occupied to go down to breakfast with Bathilde ; 
besides, he feared lest the young girl should perceive his 
uneasiness, and ask the cause ; and as he did not know how 
to keep anything from her, he would have told her all, and 
she would then have become his accomplice. He had his 
coffee sent up to him, under pretext of having an overwhelm- 
ing amount of work to do, and that he was going to work 
during breakfast. As Bathilde’s love profited by this absence, 
she was rather pleased at it than otherwise. 


THE PRINCE DE LIS THNA Y'S A CCOMPLICE, 255 

A few minutes before ten, Buvat left for his office ; his 
fears had been strong in his own house, but once in the street, 
they changed into terrors. At every crossing, at the end of 
every court, behind every angle, he thought that he saw the 
police-officers waiting for him. At the corner of the Place 
des Victoires a musketeer appeared, coming from the Rue 
Pagevin, and Buvat gave such a start on seeing him, that he 
almost fell under the wheels of a carriage. At last, after 
many alarms, he reached the library, bowed almost to the 
ground before the sentinel, darted up the stairs, gained his 
office, and falling exhausted on his seat, he shut up in his 
drawer all the papers of the Prince de Listhnay, which he 
had brought with him, for fear the police should search his 
house during his absence ; and finding himself in safety, 
heaved a sigh, which would not have failed in denouncing 
him to his colleagues as being a prey to the greatest agita- 
tion, if he had not, as usual, arrived the first. 

Buvat had a principle, which was, that no personal pre- 
occupation, whether grave or gay, ought to disturb a clerk in 
the execution of his duty. Therefore he set himself to his 
work, apparently as if nothing had happened, but really in a 
state of m.oral perturbation impossible to describe. 

This work consisted, as usual, in classifying and arranging 
books. There having been an alarm of fire three or four 
days before, the books had been thrown on the floor, or 
carried out of the reach of the flames, and there were conse- 
quently four or five thousand volumes to be reinstated in 
their proper places ; and, as it was a particularly tedious 
business, Buvat had been selected for it, and had hitherto 
acquitted himself with an intelligence and assiduity which 
had merited the commendations of his superiors, and the 
raillery of his colleagues. 

In spite of the urgency of the work, Buvat rested some 
minutes to recover himself ; but as soon as he saw the door 
open, he rose instinctively, took a pen, dipped it in the ink, 
took a handful of parchment labels, and went towards the 
remaining books, took the first which came to hand, and 
continued his classification, murmuring between his teeth, as 
was his habit under similar circumstances. 

“The ‘Breviary 01 Lovers,’ printed at Liege in 1712; no 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


236 

printer’s name. Ah, mon Dieu ! what amusement can Chi is- 
tians possibly find in reading such books ? It would be 
better if they were all burnt in the Place de Grève by the 
hand of the public hangman ! Chut ! What name have I 
been pronouncing there ! I wonder who this Prince de 
Listhnay, who has made me copy such things, is ; and the 
young man who, under pretext of doing me a service, intro- 
duced me to such a scoundrel. Come, come, this is not the 
place to think about that. How pleasant it is writing on 
parchment ; the pen glides as if over silk. What is the next?” 

“ Well, monsieur,” said the head clerk, “ and what have 
you been doing for the last five minutes, with your arms 
crossed, and your eyes fixed ?” 

“ Nothing, M. Ducoudray, nothing. I was planning a new 
mode of classification.” 

“ A new mode of classification ! Are you turned reformer ? 
Do you wish to commence a revolution, M. Buvat ?” 

“ I ! a revolution !” cried Buvat, with terror. “ A revo- 
lution, monsieur ! — never, oh never ! Good heavens, my de- 
votion to monseigneur, the regent is known ; a disinterested 
devotion, since he has not paid me for five years, as you 
know.” 

“ Well, go on with your work.” 

Buvat continued : — ‘ Conspiracy of Monsieur de Cinq 
Mars ’ — diable ! diable ! I have heard of that. He was a 
gallant gentleman, who was in correspondence with Spain ; 
that cursed Spain. What business has it to mix itself up 
eternally with our affairs ? It is true that this time it is said 
that Spain will only be an auxiliary ; but an ally who takes 
possession of our towns, and who debauches our soldiers, 
appears to me very much like an enemy. ‘ Conspiracy of 
Monsieur de Cinq-Mars, followed by a History of his Death, 
and that of Monsieur de Thou, condemned for not revealing 
it. By an Eye-Witness.’ For not revealing ! It is true, no 
doubt, for the law is positive. Whoever does not reveal is an 
accomplice — myself, for instance. I am the accomplice of 
the Prince de Listhnay ; and if they cut off his head, they 
will cut off mine too. No, they will only hang me — I am not 
noble. Hanged ! — it is • impossible ; they would never go to 
such extremities in my case : besides, I will declare all But 


THE PRINCE DE LISTHNAY^S ACCOMPLICE, 357 


then I shall be an informer ; never ! But then I shall be 
hanged — oh, oh !” 

“ What is the matter, Buvat ?” said a clerk : “ you are 
strangling yourself by twisting your cravat.” 

“ I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said Buvat, “ I did it 
mechanically ; I did not mean to offend you.” 

Buvat stretched out his hand for another book. “ * Con- 
spiracy of the Chevalier Louis de Rohan.’ Oh, I come to 
nothing but conspiracies ! ‘ Copy of a Plan of Government 

found amongst the Papers of Monsieur de Rohan, and en- 
tirely written by Van der Enden.’ Ah, mon Dieu I yes. 
That is just my case. He was hanged for having copied a 
plan. Oh, I shall die 1 ‘ Procès-verbal of the Torture of 

Francis- Affinius Van der Enden.’ If they read one day, at 
the end of the conspiracy of the Prince de Listhnay, ‘ Pro- 
cès-verbal of the Torture of Jean Buvat 1’ ” Buvat began to 
read. 

“ Well, well, what is the matter, Buvat ?” said Ducoudray, 
seeing the good man shake and grow pale : “are you ill ?” 

“ Ah, M. Ducoudray,” said Buvat, dropping the book, and 
dragging himself to a seat, “ ah, M. Ducoudray, I feel I am 
going to faint.” 

“That comes of reading instead of working,” said an 
employé. 

“ Well, Buvat, are you better ?” asked Ducoudray. 

“ Yes, monsieur, for my resolution is taken, taken irrevo- 
cably. It would not be just, by heaven, that I should bear 
the punishment for a crime which I never committed. I 
owe it to society, to my ward, to myself. M. Ducoudray, if 
the curator asks for me, you will tell him that I am gone out 
on pressing business.” 

And Buvat drew the roll of paper from the drawer, pressed 
his hat on to his head, took his stick, and went out with the 
majesty of despair. 

“ Do you know where he has gone ?” asked the employé. 

No,” answered Ducoudray. 

“ I will tell you ; — to play at bowls at the Champs-Elysées, 
or at Porcherons.” 

The employé was wrong; ne had neither gone to the 
Champs-Elysées nor to Porcherons. He had gone to Dubois. 

17 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


258 


CHAPTER XXX 

THE FOX AND THE GOOSE. 

•*M. Jean BuvAT,”said the usher. Dubois stretched out 
his viper’s heàd, darted a look at the opening which was left 
between the usher and the door, and, behind the official in- 
troducer, perceived a little fat man, pale, and whose legs 
shook under him, and who coughed to give himself assurance. 
A glance sufficed to inform Dubois the sort of person he had 
to deal with. 

“ Let him come in,” said Dubois. 

The usher went out, and Jean Buvat appeared at the door. 

“ Come in, come in,” said Dubois. 

** You do me honour, monsieur,” murmured Buvat, with- 
out moving from his place. 

“ Shut the door, and leave us,” said Dubois to the usher. 

The usher obeyed, and the door striking the posterior part 
of Buvat, made him bound a little way forward. Buvat, 
'shaken for an instant, steadied himself on his legs, and became 
jPnce niore immovable, looking at Dubois with an astounded 
, expression. 

In truth, Dubois was a curious sight. Of his episcopal 
costume he had retained the inferior part ; so that he was 
in his shirt, with black breeches and violet stockings. This 
disagreed with all Buvat’s preconceived notions. What he 
had before his eyes was neither a rpir^ister nor an archbishop, 
but seemed much more like an ourang-outang than a man. 

“ Well, monsieur,” said Dubois, sitting down and crossing 
his legs, and taking his foot in his hand, “ you have asked 
to speak to me. Here I am.” 

“ That is to say,” said Buvat, “ I asked to speak to Mon- 
seigneur the Archbishop of Cambray.” 

“Well, I am he.” 

“ How ! you, monseigneur ?” cried Buvat, taking his hat 
in both hands, and bowing almost to the ground: “ excuse me, 


THE FOX AND THE GOOSE. 


259 


but I did not recognise your eminence. It is true that this 
is the first time I h-^ve had the honour of seeing you. Still 
— hum ! at that air of majesty — hum, hum — I ought to have 
understood ” 

“Your name?” asked Dubois, interrupting the good man's 
compliments. 

“ Jean Buvat, at your service.” 

“You are ?” 

“An employé at the library.” 

“ And you have some revelations to make to me conceim 
ing Spain ?” 

“ That is to say, monseigneur This is how it is. As 

my office work leaves me six hours in the evening and four 
in the morning, and as Heaven has blessed me with a very 
good handwriting, I make copies.” 

“ Yes, I understand,” said Dubois ; “ and some one has 
given you suspicious papers to copy, so you have brought 
these suspicious papers to me, have you not ?” 

“ In this roll, monseigneur, in this roll,” said Buvat, ex« 
tending it towards Dubois. 

Dubois made a single bound from his chair to Buvat, took 
the roll, and sat down at a desk, and, in a turn of the hand, 
having torn off the string and the wrapper, found the papers 
in question. The first on which he lighted were in Spanish; 
but as Dubois had been sent twice to Spain, and knew some- 
thing of the language of Calderon and Lopez de Vega, he 
saw at the first glance how important these papers were. In- 
deed, they were neither more nor less than the protestation 
of the nobility, the list of officers who requested commissions 
under the King of Spain, and the manifesto prepared by the 
Cardinal de Polignac and the Marquis . de Pompadour to 
rouse the kingdom. These different documents were ad- 
dressed directly to Philip V.; and a little note — which Dubois 
recognised as Cellamare's handwriting — announced that the 
denouement of the conspiracy was near at hand ; he informed 
his Catholic majesty, from day to day, of all the important 
events which could advance or retard the scheme. Then 
came, finally, that famous plan of the conspirators which we 
have already given to our readers, and which — left by an 
oversight amongst the papers which had been translated into 

17--2 


26 o 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


Spanish — had opened Bu vat’s eyes. Near the plan, in the 
good man’s best writing, was the copy which he had begun to 
make, and which was broken off at the words, “ Act thus in 
all the provinces.” 

Buvat had followed all the working of Dubois’ face with a 
certain anxiety ; he had seen it pass from astonishment to 
joy, then from joy to impassibility. Dubois, as he continued 
to read, had passed, successively, one leg over the other, had 
bitten his lips, pinched the end of his nose, but all had been 
utterly untranslatable to Buvat, and at the end of the read- 
ing he understood no more from the face of the archbishop 
than he had understood at the end of the copy from the 
Spanish original. As to Dubois, he saw that this man had 
come to furnish him with the beginning of a most important 
secret, and he was meditating on the best means of making 
him furnish the end also. This was the signification of the 
crossed legs, the bitten lips, and the pinched nose. At last 
he appeared to have taken his resolution. Acharming benevo- 
lence overspread his countenance, and turning towards the 
good man, who had remained standing respectfully, — 

“ Take a seat, my dear M. Buvat,” said he. 

“ Thank you, monseigneur,” answered Buvat, trembling ; 
“I am not fatigued.” 

‘‘ Pardon, pardon,” said Dubois, “ but your legs shake. 

Indeed, since he had read the procès-verbal of the ques- 
tion of Van der Enden, Buvat had retained in his legs a ner- 
vous trembling, like that which may be observed in dogs that 
have just had the distemper. 

“ The fact is, monseigneur,” said Buvat, “ that I do not 
know what has come to me the last two hours, but I find a 
great difficulty in standing upright.” 

“ Sit down, then, and let us talk like two friends.” 

Buvat looked at Dubois with an air of stupefaction, which, 
at any other time, would have had the effect of making him 
burst out laughing, but now he did not seem to notice it, and 
taking a chair himself, he repeated with his hand the invita- 
tion which he had given with his voice. There was no means 
of drawing back ; the good man approached trembling, and 
sat down on the edge of his chair ; put his hat on the ground, 
took his cane between his legs, and waited. All this, however» 


TI]E FOX AND THE GOOSE. 


261 


was not executed without a violent internal struggle as his face 
testified, which, from being white as a lily when he came in, 
had now become as red as a peony. 

“ My dear M. Buvat, you say that you make copies ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“ And that brings you in ?” 

“Very little, monseigneur, very little.” 

“ You have, nevertheless, a superb handwriting, M. Buvat.” 

“ Yes, but all the world does not appreciate the value of 
that talent as your eminence does.” 

“ That is true, but you are employed at the library ?” 

“ I have that honour.” 

“ And your place brings you ?” 

“ Oh, my place — that is another thing, monseigneur ; it 
brings me in nothing at all, seeing that for five years the 
cashier has told us at the end of each month that the king 
was too poor to pay us.” 

“And you still remained in the service of his majesty? 
that was well done, M. Buvat ; that was well done.” 

Buvat rose, saluted Dubois, and reseated himself. 

“And, perhaps, all the while you have a family to support 
• — a wife, children ?” 

.“No, monseigneur; I am a bachelor.” 

“ But you have parents, at all events ?” 

“ No, monseigneur ; but I have a ward, a charming young 
person, full of talent, who sings like Mademoiselle Berry, and 
who draws like Greuze.” 

'“ Ah, ah ! and what is the name of your ward, M. Buvat ?” 

“Bathilde — Bathilde du Rocher, monseigneur; she is a 
young person of noble family, her father was squire to 
Monsieur the Regent, when he was still Due de Chartres, and 
had the misfortune to be killed at the battle of Almanza.” 

“ Thus I see you have your charges, my dear Buvat.” 

“ Is it of Bathilde that you speak, monseigneur ? Oh no, 
Bathilde is not a charge ; on the contrary, poor dear girl, she 
brings in more than she costs. Bathilde a charge ! Firstly, 
every month M. Papillon, the colourman at the corner of the 
Rue Cléry, you know, monseigneur, gives her eighty francs 
for two drawings ; then ” 

“ I should say, my dear Buvat, that you are not rich* 


262 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ Oh ! rich, no monseigneur, I am not, but I wish I was, 
for poor Bathilde’s sake ; and if you could obtain from mon- 
seigneur, that out of the first money which comes into the state 
coffers he would pay me my arrears, or at least something 
on account ” 

“ And to how much do your arrears amount ?’* 

“ To four thousand seven hundred francs, two sous, and 
eight centimes, monseigneur.” 

“ Is that all ?” said Dubois. 

“ How ! is that all, monseigneur ?” 

“ Yes, that is nothing.” 

“ Indeed, monseigneur, it is a great deal, and the proof is 
that the king cannot pay it.” 

“ But that will not make you rich.” 

“ It will make me comfortable, and I do not conceal from 
you, monseigneur, that if, from the first money which comes 
into the treasury ” 

“ My dear Buvat,” said Dubois, ‘‘ I have something better 
than that to offer you.” 

“ Offer it, monseigneur.” 

“ You have your fortune at your fingers’ ends.” 

“ My mother always told me so, monseigneur.” 

“ That proves,” said Dubois, “ what a sensible woman your 
mother was.” 

“ Well, monseigneur ! I am ready ; what must I do ?” 

“ Ah ! mon Dieu ! the thing is very simple, you will make 
me, now, and here, copies of all these.” 

“ But, monseigneur ” 

“ That is not all, my dear Monsieur Buvat You will take 
back to the person who gave you these papers, the copies and 
the originals, you will take all that that person gives you ; 
you will bring them to me directly, so that I may read them, 
then you will do the same with other papers as with these, < 
and so on indefinitely, till I say enough.” 

“ But, monseigneur, it seems to me that in acting thus I 
should betray the confidence of the prince.” 

“ Ah ! it is with a prince that you have business, Monsieur 
Buvat ! and what may this prince be called ?” 

“ Oh, monseigneur, it appears to me that in telling you 
his name I denounce 


THE FOX AND THE GOOSE, 


263 


“Well, and what have you come here for, then ?** 

“Monseigneur, I have come here to inform you of the 
danger which his highness runs, that is all.” 

“Indeed,” said Dubois, in a bantering tone, “and you 
imagine you are going to stop there ?” 

“ I wish to do so, monseigneur.” 

“ There is only one misfortune, that it is impossible, my 
dear Monsieur Buvat.” 

“Why impossible?” 

“ Entirely.” 

“ Monseigneur, I am an honest man ” 

“ M. Buvat, you are a fool.” 

“Monsieur, I still wish to keep silence.** 

“ My dear monsieur, you will speak.” 

“ And if I speak I shall be the informer against the prince.** 

“ If you do not speak you are his accomplice.” 

“ His accomplice, monseigneur ! and of what crime ?” 

“ Of the crime of high treason. Ah ! the police have had 
their eyes on you this long time, M. Buvat !” 

“ On me, monseigneur ?” 

“ Yes, on you ; under the pretext that they do not pay you 
your salary, you entertain seditious proposals against the State.” 

“ Oh ! monseigneur, how can they say so ?” 

“ Under the pretext of their not paying you your salary, 
you have been making copies of incendiary documents for the 
last four days.” 

“ Monseigneur I only found it out yesterday ; I do not 
understand Spanish.” 

“ You do understand it, monsieur.** 

“ I swear, monseigneur.” 

“ I tell you you do understand it, and the proof is that 
there is not a mistake in your copies. But that is not all.” 

“ How, not all ?” 

“ No, that is not all. Is this Spanish ? Look, monsieur,” 
and he read : 

“ ‘ Nothing is more important than to make sure of the 
places in the neighbourhood of the Pyrenees, and the noble- 
men who reside in the cantons.’ ” 

“ But, monseigneur, it was just by that that I made the 
discovery.” 


264 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ M. Buvat, they have sent men to the galleys for less than 
you have done.’’ 

“ Monseigneur !” 

“ M. Buvat, men have been hanged who were less guilty 
than you.” 

“ Monseigneur ! monseigneur !” 

“ M. Buvat, they have been broken on the wheel 

“ Mercy, monseigneur, mercy !” 

** Mercy to a criminal like you, M. Buvat ! I shall send 
you to the Bastille, and Mademoiselle Bathilde to Saint 
Lazare.” 

“ To Saint Lazare ! Bathilde at Saint Lazare, monseigneur! 
Bathilde at Saint Lazare ! and who has the right to do that ?’* 

“I, M. Buvat.” 

“ No, monseigneur, you have not the right !” cried Buvat, 
who could fear and suffer everything for himself, but who, at 
the thought of such infamy, from a worm became a serpent 
** Bathilde is not a daughter of the people, monseigneur ! 
Bathilde is a lady of noble birth, the daughter of a man who 
saved the life of the regent, and when I represent to his 
highness ” 

‘‘ You will go first to the Bastille, M. Buvat,” said Dubois, 
pulling the bell so as nearly to break it, and then we shall 
see about Mademoiselle Bathilde.” 

“ Monseigneur, what are you doing ?” 

“You will see.” (The usher entered.) “An officer of 
police, and a carriage.” 

“ Monseigneur !” cried Buvat, “ all that you wish ^ 

“ Do as I have bid you,” said Dubois. 

The usher went out. 

“ Monseigneur !” said Buvat, joining his hands; “mon- 
seigneur, I will obey.” 

“ No, M. Buvat Ah ! you wish a trial, you shall have one. 
You want a rope, you shall not be disappointed.” 

“ Monseigneur,” cried Buvat, falling on his knees, “ what 
must I do ?” 

“ Hang, hang, hang !” continued Dubois. 

“ Monseigneur,” said the usher, returning, “ the carriage is 
at the door, and the officer in the ante-room.” 

“Monseigneur,” said Buvat, twisting his little legs, and 


rim FOX AND THE GOOSE, 265 

tearing out the few yellow hairs which he had left, “ mon« 
seigneur, will you be pitiless !” 

“ Ah ! you will not tell me the name of the prince Y* 

“ It is the Prince de Listhnay, monseigneur.” 

“ Ah ! you will not tell me his address ?” 

“ He lives at No. no, Rue du Bac, monseigneur.’* 

“ You will not make me copies of those papers ?” 

“ I will do it, I will do it this instant,” said Buvat ; and he 
W’ent and sat down before the desk, took a pen, dipped it in 
the ink, and taking some paper, began the first page with a 
superb capital, “ I will do it, I will do it, monseigneur ; only 
you will allow me to write to Bathilde that I shall not be 
home to dinner. Bathilde at the Saint Lazare ?” murmured 
Buvat between his teeth, “ Sabre de bois 1 he w'ould have 
done as he said.” 

“ Yes, monsieur, I would have done that, and more too, for 
the safety of the State, as you will find out to your cost, if 
you do not return these papers, and if you do not take the 
others, and if you do not bring a copy here every evening.” 

“ But, monseigneur,” cried Buvat, in despair, “ I cannot 
then go to my office.” 

“ Well then, do not go to your office.” 

“ Not go to my office 1 but I have not missed a day for 
twelve years, monseigneur.” 

“Well, I give you a month’s leave.” 

“ But I shall lose my place, monseigneur. 

“What will that matter to you, since they do not pay 
you ?” 

“ But the honour of being a public functionary, monseig- 
neur ; and, moreover, I love my books, I love my table, I 
love my hair seat,” cried Buvat, ready to cry ; “ and to think 
that I shall lose it all !” 

“ Well, then, if you wish to keep your books, your table, 
and your chair, I should advise you to obey me.” 

“ Have I not already put myself at your service ?” 

“ Then you will do what I wish ?” 

“ Everything.” 

“ Without breathing a word to any one ?’* 

“ I will be dumb.” 

“Not even to Mademoiselle Bathilde?” 


266 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


“ To her less than any one, monseigneur.” 

“ That is well. On that condition I pardon you.** 

“ Oh, monseigneur !” 

“ I shall forget your fault.” 

“ Monseigneur is too good.” 

“ And, perhaps, I will even reward you.* 

“ Oh, monseigneur, what magnanimity I” 

** Well, well, set to work.” 

‘‘ I am ready, monseigneur, I am ready.” 

And Buvat began to write in his most flowing hand, and 
never moving his eyes, except from the original to the copy, 
and staying from time to time to wipe his forehead, which 
was covered with perspiration. Dubois profited by his in- 
dustry to open the closet for La Fillon, and signing to her 
to be silent, he led her towards the door. 

“ Well, gossip,” whispered she, for in spite of his caution 
she could not restrain her curiosity; “where is your writer?” 

“ There he is,” said Dubois, showing Buvat, who, leaning 
over his paper, was working away industriously. 

“ What is he doing?* 

“Guess.” • 

“ How should I know ?” 

“ Then you want me to tell you ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, he is making my cardinal’s hat.” 

La Fillon uttered such an exclamation of surprise that 
Buvat started and turned round ; but Dubois had already 
pushed her out of the room, again recommending her to 
send him daily news of the captain. 

But the reader will ask what Bathilde and D’Harmental 
were doing all this time. Nothing— they were happy. 


A CHAPTER OF SAIHTSIMON. 


267 


CHAPTER XXXi. 

A CHAPTER OF SAINT-SIMON. 

Four days passed thus, during which Buvat — remaining 
absent from the office on pretext of indisposition — succeeded 
in completing the two copies, one for the Prince de Listhnay, 
the other for Dubois, During these four days — certainly 
the most agitated of his life — he was so taciturn and gloomy 
that Bathilde several times asked him what was the matter ; 
but as he always answered nothing, and began to sing his 
little song, Bathilde was easily deceived, particularly as he 
still left every morning as if to go to the office — so that she 
saw no material alteration from his ordinary habits. 

As to D’Harmental, he received every morning a visit 
from the Abbé Brigand, announcing that everything was 
going on right ; and as his own love affairs were quite as 
prosperous, D’Harmental began to think that to be a con- 
spirator was the happiest thing on the earth. 

As to the Due d’Orleans, suspecting nothing, he continued 
his ordinary life, and had invited the customary guests to 
his Sundays supper, when in the afternoon Dubois entered 
his room. 

“ Ah, it is you, abbé ! I was going to send to you to know 
if you were going to make one of us to-night” 

“ You are going to have a supper then, monseigneur ?’* 
asked Dubois. 

** Where do you come from with your fast-day face ? Is 
not to-day Sunday ?’* 

Yes, monseigneur.” 

“ Well, then, come back to us ; here is the list of the 
guests. Nocé, Lafare, Fargy, Ravanne, Broglie ; I do not invite 
Brancas : he has been wearisome for some days. I think he 
must be conspiring. Then La Phalaris, and D’Averne, they 
cannot bear each other • they will tear out each other’s eyes, 


268 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


and that will amuse us. Then we shall have La Souris, and 
perhaps Madame de Sabran, if she has no appointment with 
Richelieu.” 

“ This is your list, monseigneur ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, will your highness look at mine now ?” 

“ Have you made one too ?” 

“ No, it was brought to me ready made.” 

“ What is this ?” asked the regent, looking at a paper which 
Dubois presented to him. 

“ Nominal list of the officers who request commissions in 
the Spanish army : Claude François de Ferrette, Knight of 
Saint Louis, Field Marshal and Colonel of Cavalry; Boschet, 
Knight of Saint Louis, and Colonel of Infantry, De Sabran, 
De Larochefoucault-Gondrel, De Villeneuve, De Lescure, 
De Laval.* Well, what next ?” 

“ Here is another and he presented a second letter to 
the duke. 

“ ‘ Protestation of the nobility.* ** 

** Make your lists, monseigneur, you are not the only one 
you see — the Prince de Cellamare has his also.’* 

‘‘ ‘ Signed without distinction of ranks, so that there may 
be no dissatisfaction : — De Vieux-Pont, De la Pailleterie, De 
Beaufremont, De Latour-du-Pin, De Montauban, Louis de 
Caumont, Claude de Polignac, Charles de Laval, Antoine de 
Chastellux, Armand de Richelieu.* Where did you fish up 
all this, you old fox ?” 

“Wait, monseigneur, we have not done yet. Look at this.** 

“ ‘ Plan of the conspirators : Nothing is more important 
than to make sure of the strong places near the Pyrenees, 
to gain the garrison of Bayonne.* Surrender oui towns ! 
give the keys of France into the hands of the Spanish I What 
does this mean, Dubois ?” 

“ Patience, monseigneur ; we have better than that to show 
you ; we have here the letters from his majesty Philip V. 
lumself.” 

‘ To the King of France But these are only 

copies.” 

“ I will tell you soon where the originals are.” 

“ Let us see, my dear abbé, let us see. * Since Provk 


A CHAPTER OF SAJNT-SIMOH, 


269 


dence has placed me on the throne of Spain/ etc., etc. ^ In 
what light can your faithful subjects regard the treaty which 
is signed against me?’ etc., etc. ‘I beg your majes y to 
convoke the States-General of the kingdom/ Convoke the 
States-General ! In whose name ?” 

“In the name of Philip V.” 

“ Philip V. is King of Spain and not of France. Let him 
keep to his own character. I crossed the Pyrenees once to 
secure him on his throne ; I might cross them a second time 
to remove him from it.” 

“ We will think of that later — I do not say no ; but for the 
present we have the fifth piece to read — and not the least 
important, as you will see.” 

And Dubois presented another paper to the regent, which 
he opened with such impatience that he tore it in opening it. 

“ Never mind,” said Dubois, “ the pieces are good ; put 
them together and read them.” 

The regent did so, and read, — 

“ ‘ Dearly and well beloved.’ 

“ Ah !” said the regent, “ it is a question of my deposition, 
and these letters, I suppose, w^ere to be given to the king?” 

“To-morrow, monseigneur.” 

“By whom?” 

“ The marshal.” 

“Villeroy?” 

“ Himself.” 

“ How did he determine on such a thing ?” 

“ It was not he ; it was his wife, monseigneur.” 

“ Another of Richelieu’s tricks?” 

“You are right, monseigneur.” 

“ And from whom do you get these papers ?” 

“ From a poor writer to whom they have been given to be 
copied, since, thanks to a descent made on Laval’s house, a 
press which he had hidden in the cellar has ceased to work.” 

“And this writer is in direct communication with Cella- 
mare ? The idiots !” 

“ Not at all, monseigneur; their measures are better takea 
The good man has only had to deal with the Prince de 
Listhnay.” 

“ Prince de Listhnay 1 Who is he ?” 


370 


THE CONSPIRATORS: 


“Rue du Bac, iio.’^ 

“ I do not know him.** 

“ Yes, you do, monseigneur.** 

“ Where have I seen him ?” 

“ In your ante-chamber.” 

“ What ! this pretended Prince de Listhnay ?** 

“ Is no other than that scoundrel D’Avranches, Madame 
de Maine’s valet-de-chambre.” 

“Ah ! I was astonished that she was not in it.” 

“ Oh ! she is at the head, and if monseigneur would like 
to be rid of her and her clique, we have them all.” 

“Let us attend to the most pressing.” 

“ Yes, let us think of Villeroy. Have you decided on a 
bold stroke?” 

“ Certainly. So long as you confine yourself to parading 
about like a man at a theatre or a tournament, very well ; so 
long as you confine yourself to calumnies and impertinences 
against me, very good ; but when it becomes a question of 
the peace and tranquillity of France, you will find, Monsieur 
le Maréchal, that you have already compromised them suffi- 
ciently by your military inaptitude, and we shall not give 
you an opportunity of doing so again by your political 
follies.” 

“ Then,” said Dubois, “ we must lay hold of him ?” 

“ Yes ; but with certain precautions. We must take him 
in the act.” 

“ Nothing easier. He goes every morning at eight o’clock 
to the king.” 

‘Yes.” 

“ Be to-morrow at half-past seven at Versailles.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ You will go to his majesty before him.** 

“ Very well.” 

The regent and Dubois talked for some little time longer, 
after which Dubois took his leave. 

“There is no supper this evening,” said Dubois to the 
usher, “give notice to the guests; the regent is ill.” 

That evening at nine o’clock the regent left the Palais 
Royal, and, contrary to his ordinary habit, slept at Versailles. 


A SNARE. 


«71 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

A SNARE. 

The next day, about seven o’clock in the morning, at the 
time when the king rose, an usher entered his majesty’s 
room and announced that his royal highness, Monseigneur 
le Duc d’Orléans, solicited the honour of assisting at his toilet. 
Louis XV., who was not yet accustomed to decide anything 
for himself, turned towards Monsieur de Fréjus, who was 
seated in the least conspicuous corner of the room, as if to 
ask what he should say; and to this mute question Monsieur 
de Fréjus not only made a sign with his head signifying that 
it was necessary to receive his royal highness, but rose and 
went himself to open the door. The regent stopped a 
minute on the doorstep to thank Fleury, then having 
assured himself by a rapid glance round the room that 
the Marshal de Villeroy had not yet arrived, he advanced 
towards the king. 

Louis XV. was at this time a pretty child of nine or ten 
years of age, with long chestnut hair, jet-black eyes, and a 
mouth like a cherry, and a rosy complexion like that of his 
mother, Mary of Savoy, Duchesse de Burgundy, but which 
was liable to sudden paleness. Although his character was 
already very irresolute, thanks to the contradictory influences 
of the double government of the Marshal de Villeroy and 
Monsieur de Fréjus, he had something ardent in his face 
which stamped him as the great-grandson of Louis XIV. ; 
and he had a trick of putting on his hat like him. At first, 
warned against the Due d’Orleans as the man in all France 
from whom he had most to fear, he had felt that prejudice 
yield little by little during the interviews which they had hrd 
together, in which, with that juvenile instinct which so rarely 
deceives children, he had recognised a friend. 

On his part, it must be said that the Due d’Orleans had 
for the king, besides the respect which was his due. a love 




THE CONSPIRATORS. 


the most attentive and the most tender. The little business 
which could be submitted to his young mind he always pre- 
sented to him with so much clearness and talent, that politics, 
which would have been wearisome with any one else, became 
a recreation when pursued with him, so that the royal child 
always saw his arrival with pleasure. It must be confessed 
that this work was almost always rewarded by the most 
beautiful toys which could be found, and which Dubois, in 
order to pay his court to the king, imported from Germany 
and England. His majesty therefore received the regent 
with his sweetest smile, and gave him his little hand to kiss 
with a peculiar grace, while the Archbishop of Fréjus, faith- 
ful to his system of humility, had sat down in the same corner 
where he had been surprised by the arrival of the regent. 

“ I am very glad to see you, monsieur,” said Louis XV. 
in a sweet little voice, from which even the etiquette which 
they imposed upon him could not entirely take away all 
grace ; and all the more glad to see you from its not being 
your usual hour. I presume that you have some good news 
to tell me.” 

‘"Two pieces, sire,” answered the regent; ‘‘the first is, 
that I have just received from Nuremberg a chest which 
seems to me to contain ” 

“Oh toys! lots of toys! does it not. Monsieur le Regent?” 
cried the king, dancing joyously, and clapping his hands, 
regardless of his valet-de-chambre who was waiting for him, 
and holding the little sword with a cut- steel handle which 
he was going to hang in the king’s belt. “Oh the dear toys ! 
the beautiful toys ! how kind you are ! Oh ! how I love you, 
Monsieur le Regent !” 

“ Sire, I only do my duty,” answered the Due d’Orleans, 
bowing respectfully, “ and you owe me no thanks for that.” 

“ And where is it, monsieur ? Where is this pretty chest ?” 

“ In my apartments, sire ; and if your majesty wishes it 
brought here, I will send it during the course of the day, or 
to-morrow morning.” 

“ Oh ! no ; now, monsieur ; now, I beg.” 

“ But it is at my apartments.” 

“ Well, let us go to your apartments,” cried the child, run- 
ning to the door, and forgetting that he wanted, in order to 



Thk Prince dk Cellamakr 














y 


• • f 








i^^DP 






\ • 


i 


« 


•k 


k. 


« 


< 







A SINARE. 873 

complete his toilet, his little sword, his little satin jacket, and 
his cordon bleu. 

“ Sire,” said Fréjus, advancing, “ I would remark that your 
majesty abandons yourself too entirely to the pleasure caused 
by the possession of things that you should already regard as 
trifles.” 

“Yes, monsieur; yes, you are right,” said Louis XV., 
making an effort to control himself ; “ but you must 
pardon me; I am only ten years old, and I worked hard 
yesterday.” 

“That is true,” said Monsieur de Fréjus; “and so your 
majesty will employ yourself with the toys when you have 
asked Monsieur le Regent what the other piece of news 
which he came to bring you is.” 

“ Ah ! yes. By-the-bye, what is the second affair ?” 

“ A work which will be profitable to France, and which is 
of so much importance that I think it most necessary to 
submit it to your majesty.” 

“ Have you it here ?” asked the king. 

“ No, sire ; I did not expect to find your majesty so well 
inclined to work, and I left it in my study.” 

“Well,” said Louis XV., turning half towards Monsieur de 
Fréjus, half towards the regent, and looking at both of them 
with an imploring eye, “cannot we reconcile all that? 
Instead of taking my morning walk, I will go and see these 
beautiful Nuremberg toys, and when we have seen them we 
will pass into your study and work.” 

“ It is against etiquette, sire,” answered the tegent, “ but 
if your majesty wishes it ” 

“ Oh, I do wish it ! That is,” added he, turning and look- 
ing at Fréjus so sweetly that there was no resisting it, “ if my 
good preceptor permits it.” 

“ Does Monsieur de Fréjus see anything wrong in it ?” 
said the regent, turning towards Fleury, and pronouncing 
these words with an accent which showed that the preceptor 
would wound him deeply by refusing the request which his 
royal pupil made him. 

“ No, monseigneur,” said Fréjus; “ quite the contrary. It 
is well that his majesty should accustom himself to work; and 
if the laws of etiquette are a little violated, that violation 

i8 


274 


THE CONSPIRATORS 


will bring about a happy result for the people. I only ask 
of monseigneur the permission to accompany his majesty.” 

“ Certainly, monsieur,” said the regent, “ with the greatest 
pleasure.” 

“ Oh, how good ! how kind !” cried Louis XV. “ Quick Î 
my sword, my jacket, my cordon-bleu. Here I am, 
Monsieur le Regent and he advanced to take the regent’s 
hand. But instead of allowing that familiarity, the regent 
bowed, and, opening the door, signed to the king to precede 
him, following three or four paces behind, hat in hand, 
together with Fréjus. 

The king’s apartments, situated on the ground-floor, were 
level with those of the Due d’Orleans, and were only sepa- 
rated by an ante-chamber, opening into the king’s rooms, and 
a gallery leading from thence to the ante-chamber of the 
regent. The distance was short, therefore, and — as the king 
was in haste to arrive — they found themselves in an instant 
in a large study, lighted by four windows, all forming doors, 
which opened into the garden. This large study led to a 
smaller one, where the regent generally worked, and where 
he brought his most intimate friends and his favourites. All 
his highness’ court was in attendance — a very natural circum- 
stance, since it was the hour for rising. The king, however, 
did not notice either Monsieur d’Artagnan, captain of the 
Gray Musketeers, or the Marquis de Lafare, captain of the 
Guards, or a very considerable number of the Light Horse, 
who were drawn up outside the windows. It is true that on 
a table in the middle of the room he had seen the welcome 
chest, whose monstrous size had, in spite of the chilling 
exhortation of Monsieur de Fréjus, caused him to give a cry 
of joy, / 

However, he was obliged to contain himself, and receive 
the homage of Monsieur d’Artagnan and Monsieur de Lafare; 
meanwhile the regent had called two valets-de-chambre, who 
quickly opened the lid, and displayed the most splendid col- 
lection of toys which had ever dazzled the eyes of a king of 
nine years old. At this tempting sight, the king forgot alike 
preceptor, guards, and Gray Musketeers. He hastened to- 
wards this paradise which was opened to him, and, as from 
an inexhaustible mine, he drew out successively locks, three* 


A SA'ARE, 


*75 


deckers, squadrons of cavalry, battalions of infantry, pedlars 
with their packs, jugglers with their cups ; in fact, all those 
wonders, which, on Christmas eve, turn the heads of all chil- 
dren beyond the Rhine; and that, with such undisguised 
transports of joy, that Monsieur de Fréjus himself respected 
his royal pupil’s happiness. The assistants watched him with 
that religious silence which surrounds great griefs or great 
joys. While this silence was the most profound, a violent 
noise was heard in the ante-chamber, the door was opened, 
an usher announced the Duke de Villeroy, and the marshal 
appeared, loudly demanding to see the king.. As they were, 
however, accustomed to such proceedings, the regent merely 
pointed to his majesty, who was still continuing to empty 
the chest, covering the furniture and floor with the splendid 
toys. 


The marshal had nothing to say ; he was nearly an hour 
late ; the king was wdth Monsieur Fréjus, but he approached 
him, grumbling, and throwing round him glances, which 
appeared to say that he w^as there ready to protect his 
majesty from all danger. 

The regent exchanged glances with D’Artagnan and Lafare; 
everything went well. 

The chest was emptied — and, after having allowed the king 
to enjoy for an instant the sight of all his treasures — the 
regent approached him, and, still hat in hand, recalled to his 
mind the promise he had made to devote an hour to the 
consideration of State affairs. 

Louis XV., with that scrupulousness which afterwards led 
him to declare that punctuality was the politeness of kings, 
threw a last glance over his toys ; and then merely asking 
permission to have them removed to his apartments, advanced 
towards the little study, and the regent opened the door. 
Then, according to their different characters. Monsieur de 
Fleury, under pretext of his dislike of politics, drew back, 
and sat down in a corner, while the marshal darted forwards, 
and, seeing the king enter the study tried to follow him. 
This was the moment that the regent had impatiently ex- 
pected. 

“ Pardon, marshal,” said he, barring the passage ; ** but I 
wish to speak to his majesty on affairs which demand the 

i3— 2 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


276 

most absolute secrecy, and therefore I beg for a short tète-à- 
tête.” 

“ Tête-à-tête !” cried Villeroy ; “ you know, monseigneur, 
that it is impossible.” 

“ And why impossible ?” asked the regent, calmly. 

"Because, as governor to his majesty, I have the right 
of accompanying him everywhere.” 

" In the first place, monsieur,” replied the regent, " this 
right does not appear to me to rest on any very positive proof, 
and if I have till now tolerated — not this right, but this pre- 
tension — it is because the age of the king has hitherto ren- 
dered it unimportant ; but now that his majesty has nearly 
completed his tenth year, and that I am permitted to com- 
mence instructing him on the science of government, in w'hich 
I am his appointed preceptor, you will see that it is quite 
right that I, as well as Monsieur de Fréjus and yourself, 
should be allowed some hours of tête-à-téte with his majesty. 
This will be less painful to you to grant, marshal,” added the 
regent, with a smile, the expression of which it was impos- 
sible to mistake, “ because, having studied thèse matters so 
much yourself, it is impossible that you can have anything 
left to learn.” 

" But, monsieur,” said the marshal, as usual forgetting his 
politeness as he became warm, " I beg to remind you that 
the king is my pupil.” 

" I know it, monsieur,” said the regent, in the same tone ; 
" make of his majesty a great captain, I do not wish to pre- 
vent you. Your campaigns in Italy and Flanders prove that 
he could not have a better master ; but, at this moment, it is 
not a question of military science, but of a state secret, which 
can only be confided to his majesty ; therefore, again I beg 
to speak to the king in private.” 

" Impossible, monseigneur !” cried the marshal. 

" Impossible !” replied the regent ; " and why ?” 

" Why ?” continued the marshal ; " because my duty is 
not to lose sight of the king for a moment, and because I 
will not permit it” 

“Take care, marshal,” interrupted the Due d’Orleans, 
haughtily ; “ you are forgetting your proper respect towards 
me.” 


A SNARE, 


277 


“ Monseigneur,^ continued the marshal, becoming more 
and more angry, “ I know the respect which I owe to your 
royal highness, and I also know what I owe to my charge, and 
to the king, and for that reason I will not lose sight of his 
majesty for an instant, inasmuch as ” 

The duke hesitated. 

“Well, finish,” said the regent. 

“ Inasmuch as I answer for his person,” said the marshal. 

At this want of all restraint, there was a moment’s silence, 
during which nothing was heard but the grumblings of the 
marshal, and the stifled sighs of Monsieur de Fleury. 

As to the Due d’Orleans, he raised his head with a sove- 
reign air of contempt, and, taking that air of dignity which 
made him, when he chose, one of the most imposing princes 
in the world : 

“ Monsieur de Villeroy,” said he, “ you mistake me 
strangely, it appears, and imagine that you are speaking to 
some one else ; but since you forget who I am, I must en- 
deavour to remind you. Marquis de Lafare,” continued he, 
addressing his captain of the guards, “ do your duty.” 

Then the Marshal de Villeroy, seeing on what a precipice 
he stood, opened his mouth to attempt an excuse, but the 
regent left him no time to finish his sentence, and shut the 
door in his face. 

The Marquis de Lafare instantly approached the marshal, 
and demanded his sword. The marshal remained for an 
instant as if thunderstruck. Ho had for so long a time been 
left undisturbed in his impertinence, that he had begun to 
think himself invincible. He tried to speak, but his voice 
failed him, and, on the second, and still more imperative 
demand, he gave up his sword. At the same moment a door 
opens, and a chair appears ; two musketeers push the mar- 
shal into it — it is closed. D’Artagnan and Lafare place them- 
selves at each side, and the prisoner is carried off through 
the gardens. The Light Horse follow, and, at a consider- 
able and increasing speed they descend the staircase, turn to 
the left, and enter the orangery. There the suite remain, 
and the chair, its porters, and tenant, enter a second room, 
accompanied only by Lafare and D’Artagnan. The marshal, 
who had never been remarkable for sang-froid, thought him- 
self lost. 


27 * 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


“ Gentlemen,” cried he, turning pale, while perspiration 
and powder ran down his face, “ I hope I am not going to be 
assassinated !” 

“ No, no, make yourself easy,” said Lafare, while D’Artag- 
nan could not help laughing at his ridiculous figure, — " some- 
thing much more simple, and infinitely less tragic.” i 

“ What is it, then ?” asked the marshal, whom this assur- 
ance rendered a little more easy 

“ There are two letters, monsieur, which you were to have 
given to the king this morning, and which you must have in 
one of your pockets.’ 

The marshal, who, till that moment, in his anxiety about 
himself, had forgotten Madame de Maine’s affairs, started, 
and raised his hands to the pocket where the letters were. 

“Your pardon,” said D’Artagnan, stopping his hand, 
“ but we are authorised to inform you — in case you should 
feel inclined to remove these letters — that the regent has 
copies of them.” 

“ I may add,” said Lafare, “ that we are authorised to take 
them by force, and are absolved in advance from all acci- 
dents that may happen in such a struggle.” 

“ And you assure me,” said the marshal, “ that tne regent 
has copies of these letters ?” 

“ On my word of honour,” said D’Artagnan. 

“ In this case,” replied Villeroy, “ I do not see why I 
should prevent you from taking these letters, which do not 
regard me in the least, and which I undertook to deliver to 
obHge others.” 

“ We know it,” said Lafare. 

“ But,” added the marshal, “ I hope you will inform his 
royal highness of the ease with which I submitted to his orders, 
and of my regret for having offended him ?” 

“ Do not doubt it ; all will be reported as it has passed. 
But these letters ?” 

“ Here they are, monsieur,” said the marshal, giving two 
letters to Lafare. 

Lafare assured himself by tne seals that they were really 
the letters he was in search of. “ My dear D’Artagnan,” 
said he, “ now conduct the marshal to his destination, and 
give orders, in the name of the regent, that he is to be 
treated with every respect.” 


A SNARE, 


279 


The chair was closed, and the porters carried it off. Al 
the gate of the gardens a carriage with six horses was w’aiting, 
in which they placed the marshal, w'ho now began to suspect 
the trap which had been laid for him. D’Artagnan seated 
Ihimself by him, an officer of musketeers and Du Libois, one 
of the king’s gentlemen, opposite ; and with tw^enty mus- 
keteers at each side, and twelve following, the carriage set 
off at a gallop. Meanwhile, the Marquis of Lafare returned 
to the château with the two letters in his hand 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 

The same day, towards two o’clock in the afternoon, while 
D’Harmental, profiting by Buvat’s absence, was repeating to 
Bathilde for the thousandth time that he loved her, Nanette 
entered, and announced that some one was w’aiting in his 
own room on important business. D’Harmental, anxious to 
know who this inopportune visitor could be, w^ent to the 
window, and saw the Abbé Brigaud walking up and down 
his room. D’Harmental instantly took leave of Bathilde, 
and went up to his own apartments^ 

“ Well,” said the abbé, “ while you are quietly making love 
to your neighbour, fine things are happening.” 

What things ?” asked D’Harmental. 

“ Do you not know ?” 

“ I know absolutely nothing, except that — unless what you 
have to tell me is of the greatest importance — I should like 
to strangle you for having disturbed me ; so take care, and 
if you have not any news worthy of the occasion, invent 
some.” 

Unfortunately,” replied the abbé, “the reality leaves 
little to the imagination.” 

“ Indeed, my dear abbé,” said D’Harmental, “ you look in 
a terrible fright. What has happened ? Tell me.” 

“Oh, only that we have been betrayed by seme one. 


28 o 


THE CONSPIRATORS 


That the Marshal de Villeroy was arrested this morning at 
Versailles, and that the two letters from Philip V. are in the 
hands of the regent.” 

D’Harmental perfectly understood the gravity of the situa- 
tion, but his face exhibited the calmness which was habitual 
to him in moments of danger. 

“ Is that all ?” he asked, quietly. 

“ All for the present ; and, if you do not think it enough, 
you are difficult to satisfy.” 

“ My dear abbé,” said D’Harmental, when we entered 
on this conspiracy, it was with almost equal chances of suc- 
cess and failure. Yesterday, our chances were ninety to a 
hundred ; to-day they are only thirty ; that is all.” 

“ I am glad to see that you do not easily allow yourself to 
be discouraged,” said Brigand. 

“ My dear abbé,” said D’Harmental, “ at this moment I am 
a happy man, and I see everything on the bright side. If 
you had taken me in a moment of sadness, it would have 
been quite the reverse, and I should have replied ‘ Amen * 
to your ‘ De Profundis.’ ” 

“ And your opinion ?” 

“ Is that the game is becoming perplexed, but is not yet 
lost. The Marshal de Villeroy is not of the conspiracy, does 
not even know the names of the conspirators. Philip V.'s 
letters — as far as I remember them - do not name anybody; 
and the only person really compromised is the Prince de 
Cellamare. The inviolability of his character protects him 
from any real danger. Besides, if our plan has reached the 
Cardinal Alberoni, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan must serve as 
hostage.” 

“ There is truth in what you say.” 

“And from whom have you this news?” asked the chevalier. 

“ From Valef, who had it from Madame de Maine ; who, 
on receipt of the news, went to the Prince of Cellamare him- 
self.” 

“We must see Valef” 

“ I have appointed him to meet me here, and on my way 
I stopped at the Marquis de Pompadour’s. I am astonished 
that he is not here before me.” 

“ Raoul,” said a voice on the staircase. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END, 281 

** Stay, it is he,” cried D’Harmental, running to the door 
and opening it. 

“Thank you,” said Valef, “for your assistance, which is 
very seasonable, for I was just going away, convinced that 
Brigaud must have made a mistake, and that no Christian 
could live at such a height, and in such a pigeon-hole. I 
must certainly bring Madame de Maine here, that she may 
know what she owes you.” 

“ God grant,” said the Abbé Brigaud, “ that we may not 
all be worse lodged a few days hence !” 

“ Ah ! you mean the Bastille ! It is possible, abbé ; but at 
least one does not go to the Bastille of one’s own accord ; 
moreover, it is a royal lodging, which raises it a little, and 
makes it a place where a gentleman may live without degra- 
dation ; but a place like this — fie, abbé !” 

“If you knew what I have found here,” said D’Harmental, a 
little piqued, “you would be as unwilling to leave it as I am.’* 

“Ah, some little bourgeoise; some Madame Michelin, 
perhaps. Take care, D’Harmental ; these things are only 
allowed to Richelieu. With you and me, who are perhaps 
worth as much as he is, but are unfortunately not quite so 
l^iuch in fashion, it will not do.” 

“ Well,” said the Abbé Brigaud, “ although your conver- 
sation is somewhat frivolous, I hear it with pleasure, since it 
assures me that our affairs are not so bad as I thought.” 

“ On the contrary, the conspiracy is gone to the devil.” 

“How so?” 

“ I scarcely thought they would leave me time to bring yon 
the news.” 

“Were you nearly arrested then, Valef?” asked D’Har- 
mental. . 

“ I only escaped by a hair’s breadth.” 

“ How did it happen, baron ?” 

“ You remember, abbé, that I left you to go to the Prince 
de Cellamare ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, I was there w^hen they came to seize his papers. 

“ Have they seized the prince’s papers ?” 

“ All except what we burnt, which unfortunately were the 
smaller nunjber.” 


28a 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ Then we are all lost,” said the abbé. 

“ Why, my dear abbé, how you throw the helve after the 
hatchet !” 

“ But, Valef, you have not told us how it happened,” said 
D’Harmental. 

“My dear chevalier, imagine the most ridiculous thing 
in the world. I wish you had been there : we should have 
laughed fit to kill ourselves. It would have enraged that 
. fellow Dubois.” 

“ What 1 was Dubois himself at the ambassador’s ?” 

“ In person, abbé. Imagine the Prince de Cellamare and 
I quietly sitting by the corner of the fire, taking out letters 
from a little casket, and burning those which seemed to 
deserve the honours of an auto-da-fé, when all at once his 
valet-de-chambre enters, and announces that the hotel of the 
embassy is invested by a body of musketeers, and that Dubois 
and Leblanc wish to speak to him. The object of this visit 
is not difficult to guess. The prince — without taking the 
trouble to choose — empties the caskets into the fire, pushes 
me into dressing-closet, and orders that they shall be ad- 
mitted. The order was useless. Dubois and Leblanc were at 
the door. Fortunately, neither one nor the other had seen me.” 

“ Well, I see nothing droll as yet,” said Brigand. 

“ This is just where it begins,” replied Valef. “ Remember 
that I was in the closet, seeing and hearing everything. 
Dubois entered, and stretching out his weasel’s head to watch 
the Prince de Cellamare, who. Wrapped in his dressing-gown, 
stood before the fire to give the papers time to burn. 

“ ‘ Monsieur,’ said the prince, in that phlegmatic manner 
you know he has, ‘ may I know to what event I owe the 
honour of this visit ?’ 

“ ‘ Oh, mon Dieu, monseigneur 1’ said Dubois, * to a very 
simple thing — a desire which Monsieur Leblanc and I had 
to learn a little of your papers, of which,’ added he, showing 
the letters of Philip V., ‘ these two patterns have given us a 
foretaste.’ ” 

“ How !” said Brigaud, “ these letters seized at ten o’clock 
at Versailles, are in Dubois’ hands at one o’clock !” 

“ As you say, abbé. You see that they travelled faster 
than if they had been put in the post” 


Tim BEGINNING OF THE END, 283 

And what did the prince say then ?” asked D’Hannental. 

“ Oh ! the prince wished to carry it off with a high hand, 
by appealing to his rights as an envoy ; but Dubois, who is 
not wanting in a certain logic, showed him that he had himsell 
somewhat violated these rights, by covering the conspiracy 
with his ambassador’s cloak. In short, as he was the weakest, 
he was obliged to submit to what he could not prevent. 
Besides, Leblanc, without asking permission, had already 
opened the desk, and examined its contents, while Dubois 
drew out the drawers of a bureau, and rummaged in them. 
All at once Cellamare left his place, and stopping I^blanc, 
who had just taken a packet of papers tied with red ribbon, — 

“ ‘Pardon, monsieur,’ said he, ‘to each one his preroga- 
tives. These are ladies’ letters.’ 

“ ‘ Thanks for your confidence,’ said Dubois, not in the 
least disconcerted; but rising and taking the papers from the 
hand of Leblanc, ‘I am accustomed to these sort of secrets, 
and yours shall be well kept.’ 

“ At this moment, looking towards the fire, he saw — in the 
midst of the burnt letters — a paper still untouched, and dart- 
ing towards it, he seized it just as the flames were reaching 
it. The movement was so rapid that the ambassador could 
not prevent it, and the paper was in Dubois’ hands. 

“‘Pester said the prince, seeing Dubois shaking his 
fingers, ‘ I knew that the regent had skilful spies, but I did 
not know that they were brave enough to go in the fire.’ 

“ ‘Ma foi ! prince,’ said Dubois, unfolding the paper, ‘ they 
are well rewarded for their bravery, see.’ 

“ The prince cast his eyes over the paper ; I do not know 
what it contained, but I know that the prince turned pale as 
death ; and that, as Dubois burst out laughing, Cellamare 
broke in pieces a little marble statue which was near his 
hand. 

“‘lam glad it was not I,’ said Dubois, coldly, and putting 
the paper in his pocket. 

“ ‘ Every one in turn, monsieur ; heaven is just !' said the 
ambassador. 

“ ‘ Meanwhile,’ said Dubois, * as we nave got what we 
wanted, and have not much time to lose to day, we will set 
about affixing the seals.’ 


2$4 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


** ‘ The seals here cried the ambassador, exasperated. 

“ ‘ With your permission,’ replied Dubois; ‘proceed. Mon- 
sieur Leblanc.’ 

“Leblanc drew out from a bag bands and wax, all ready 
prepared. They began operations with the desk and the 
bureau, then they advanced towards the door of my closet. 

“ ‘ No,' cried the prince, ‘I will not permit ” 

“ ‘ Gentlemen,’ said Dubois, opening the door, and intro- 
ducing into the room two officers of musketeers, ‘ the ambas- 
sador of Spain is accused of high treason against the State. 
Have the kindness to accompany him to the carriage which 
is waiting, and take him — you know where ; if he resists, call 
eight men, and take him by force.’ ” 

“ Well, and what did the prince do then ?” asked Brigand. 

“ What you would have done in his place, I presume, my 
dear abbé. He followed the two officers, and five minutes 
afterwards your humble servant found himself under seal. ’ 

“ How the devil did you get out ?” cried D’Harmental. 

“ That is the beauty of it. Hardly was the prince gone, 
when Dubois called the valet-de-chambre. 

“ ‘ What are you called ?’ asked Dubois. 

“ ‘ Lapierre, at your service, monseigneur.* 

“ ‘ My dear Leblanc,’ said Dubois, ‘ explain, if you please, 
to Monsieur Lapierre, what are the penalties for breaking 
seals.’ 

“ ‘ The galleys,* replied Leblanc. 

“ ‘ My dear Monsieur Lapierre,’ continued Dubois, in a 
mild tone, ‘you hear. If you like to spend a few years rowing 
on one of his majesty’s vessels, touch one of these seals and 
the affair is done. If, on the contrary, a hundred louis are 
agreeable to you, keep them faithfully, and in three days the 
money shall be given you.’ 

“ ‘ I prefer the hundred louis,* said the scroundel. 

“ ‘ Well, then, sign this paper. We constitute you guardian 
of the prince’s cabinet.’ 

“ ‘ I am at your orders, monseigneur,’ replied Lapierre ; 
and he signed. 

‘‘ ‘ Now,’ said Dubois, ‘ you understand all the responsi- 
bility you have undertaken ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, monseigneur.’ 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END, 285 

“ ‘ And submit to it.’* 

“ ‘ I do.’ 

“ ‘ Now, Leblanc,’ s§id Dubois, * we have nothing further 
to do here, and,’ added he, showing the paper which he had 
snatched from the fire, ‘ I have all I wanted.’ 

“And at these words he left, followed by Leblanc, 

“ Lapierre, as soon as he had seen them off, ran to the 
cabinet, and exclaimed, ‘ Quick, baron, wc must profit by 
our being alone for you to leave.’ 

“ ‘ Did you know I was here then, fellow r” 

“ * Pardieu ! I should not have accepted the office of guar- 
dian if I had not. I saw you go in, and I thought you would 
not like to stay there for three days.’ 

“ ‘ And you were right ; a hundred louis for your good 
idea.’ 

“ ‘ Mon Dieu ! what are you doing ?’ cried Lapierre. 

‘ I am trying to get out.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, not by the door ! You would not send a poor 
fellow to the galleys ; besides they have taken the key with 
them.* 

“ ‘ And where am I to get out, then ?* 

“ ‘ Raise your head.’ 

“ ‘ It is raised.’ 

“ ‘ Look in the air.’ 

“‘lam looking.’ 

“ ‘ To your right. Do you not see anything ?* 

“ ‘ Yes, a little window.’ 

“ ‘ Well, get on a chair, on anything you find ; it opens into 
the alcove, let yourself slip now, you will fall on the bed — 
that is it. You have not hurt yourself, monsieur ?’ 

“‘No, I hope the prince will have as comfortable a bed 
where they are taking him.’ 

“ ‘ And I hope monsieur will not forget the service I have 
rendered him.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, the hundred louis ? Well, as I do not want to part 
with money at this moment, take this ring, it is worth three 
hundred pistoles — you gain six hundred francs on the bar- 
gain.’ 

“ ‘ Monsieur is the most generous gentleman I know.* 

“ ‘Now, tell me how I must go.’ 


286 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


* By this little staircase ; you will find yourself in the 
pantry; you must then go through the kitchen into the garden, 
and go out by the little door.’ 

“ ‘ Thanks for the itinerary.' 

“ I followed the instructions of Monsieur Lapierre exactly, 
and here I am.” 

And the prince ; where is he ?” asked the chevalier. 

“ How do I know ? In prison probably.” 

“ Diable ! diable ! diable !” said Brigaud. 

“ Well, what do you say to my Odyssey, abbé ?” 

“ I say that it would be very droll if it was not for that 
cursed paper which Dubois picked out of the cinders.” 

“ Yes,” said Valef, “that spoils it.” 

“ And you have not any idea what it could be ?” 

“Not the least; but never mind, it is not lost, we shall 
know some day.” 

At this moment they heard some one coming up the stair- 
case. The door opened, and Boniface appeared. 

“ Pardon, Monsieur Raoul,” said he, “ but it is not you I 
seek, it is Father Brigaud.” 

“ Never mind, my dear Boniface, you are welcome. Baron, 
allow me to present you to my predecessor in my room. 
The son of our worthy landlady, and godson of the Abbé 
Brigaud.” 

“ Oh, you have friends barons, Monsieur Raoul ! what an 
honour for our house !” 

“Well,” said the abbé, “you weie looking for me you 
said. What do you want?” 

“ I want nothing. It was my mother who sent for you.” 

“ What does she want ? Do you know ?” 

“ She wants to know why the parliament is to assembly to- 
morrow.” 

“ The parliament assemble to-morrow I” cried Valef and 
D’Harmental together. 

“ And how did your mother know ?’' 

“ I told her.” 

“ And how did you know ?'' 

“At the office. Maître Joullu was with the president 
when the order arrived.” 

“ Well, tell your mother I will come to her directly.” 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END, aS; 

** She will expect you. Adieu, Monsieur Raoul.” 

And Monsieur Boniface went out, far from suspecting the 
effect he had produced on his listeners. 

“ It is some coup-d’état which is preparing,” murmured 
D’Harmental 

“ I will go to Madame de Maine to warn her,” said Valef. 

“And I to Pompadour for news,” said Brigaud. 

“And I,” said D’Harmental, “remain here; if I am 
wanted, abbé, you know where I am.” 

“ But if you were not at home, chevalier ?” 

“Oh ! I should not be far off. Open the window, clap 
your hands, and I should come.” 

Valef and Brigaud went away together, and D’Harmental 
went back to Bathilde, whom he found very uneasy. It was 
five o’clock in the afternoon, and Buvat had not returned — 
it was the first time such a thing had ever happened. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

PARLIAMENTARY JUSTICE. 

The following day, about seven o’clock in the morning, 
Brigaud came to fetch D’Harmental, and found the young 
man ready and wa’ting. They both wrapped themselves in 
the'r cloaks, drew down their hats over their eyes, and pro- 
ceeded through the Rue de Cléry, the Place des Victoires, 
and the garden of the Palais Royal 

On reaching the Rue de l’Echelle, they began to perceive 
an unusual stir. All the avenues leading towards the Tuile- 
ries were guarded by detachments of musketeers and light 
horse, and the people, expelled from the court and gardens 
of the Tuileries, crow^ded into the Place du Carousel. 
D’Harmental and Brigaud mixed with the mob. 

Having arrived at the place where the triumphal arch now 
stands, they were accosted by an officer of Gray Musketeers, 
wrapped in a large cloak like themselves. It was Valef 
“ Well, baron,” asked Brigaud, “ wha^ news ?” 


288 


TIŒ CONSPIRA TORS. 


“ Ah ! it is you, abbé,” said Valef ; “ we have been looking 
for you, Laval, Malezieux, and myself. I have just left them ; 
they must be somewhere near. Let us stop here ; it will 
not be long before they find us. Do you know anything 
yourself?” 

‘‘ No, nothing. I called at Malezieux’s, but he had already 
gone out.” 

“ Say that he was not yet come home. VVe remained at 
the Arsenal all night.” 

“ And no hostile demonstration has been made ?” asked 
D’Harmental. 

“ None. Monsieur le Duc de Maine, and Monsieur le 
Comte de Toulouse were summoned for the regent’s council, 
which is to be held before the sitting of the parliament. At 
half-past six they were both at the Tuileries, so Madame de 
Maine, in order to get the news as soon as possible, has come 
and installed herself in her superintendent’s apartments.” 

“Is it known what has become of the Prince de Celia- 
mare?” asked D’Harmental. 

“ He is sent to Orleans, in a chaise and four, in the com- 
pany of a gentleman of the king’s household, and an escort 
of a dozen light horse.” 

“ And is nothing known about the paper which Dubois 
picked out of the cinders ?” asked Brigand. 

“ Nothing.” 

“ What does Madame de Maine think ?” 

“That he is brewing something against the legitimated 
princes, and that he will profit by this to take away some 
more of their privileges. This morning she lectured her 
husband sharply, and he promised to remain firm, but she 
does not rely upon him.” 

“ And Monsieur de Toulouse ?” 

“ We saw him yesterday evening, but, you know, my deal 
abbé, there is nothing to be done with his modesty, or rather 
his humility. He always thinks that they have done too 
much for him, and is ready to abandon to the regent any- 
thing that is asked of him.” 

“ By-the-bye, the king ?” 

“ Well, the king ” 

•‘Yes, how has he taken the arrest of his tutor?* 



l'jîE Dnc i>K ATainr 






PARLIAMENTAR Y JUSTICE, 289 

Ah ! do you not know ? It seems that there was a com- 
pact between the marshal and Monsieur de Fréjus, that if 
one of them left his majesty, the other should leave imme- 
diately — yesterday morning Monsieur de Fréjus disappeared.” 

“ And where is he ?” 

God knows ! And so the king, who had taken the loss 
of his marshal very well, was inconsolable at that of his 
bishop.” 

“ And how do you know all that ?” 

‘‘Through the Due de Richelieu, who went yesterday, 
about two o’clock, to Versailles, to pay his respects to the 
king, and who found his majesty in despair in the midst of 
the china and ornaments which he had broken. Unfortu- 
nately, Richelieu, instead of encouraging the king’s grief, 
made him laugh by telling him a hundred stories, and almost 
consoled him by helping him to break the rest of the china 
and ornaments.” 

At this moment an individual clothed in a long advocate’s 
robe, and with a square cap, passed near the group which 
was formed by Brigaud, D’Harmental, and Valef, humming 
the burthen of a song made on the marshal after the battle 
of Ramillies. Brigaud turned round, and, under the dis- 
guise, thought he recognised Pompadour. On his part the 
advocate stopped, and approached the group in question. 
The abbé had no longer any doubt. It was really the marquis. 

“ Well, Maître Clément,” said he, “ what news from the 
palace ?” 

“ Oh !” answered Pompadour, “ good news, particularly if 
it be true ; they say that the parliament refuses to come to 
the Tuileries.” 

“ Vive Dieu !” cried Valef, “ that will reconcile me with the 
red robes. But they will not dare.” 

“Why not? You know that Monsieur de Mesme is for 
U5, and has been named president through the influence of 
Monsieur de Maine.” 

“ Yes, that is true, but that is long since,” said Brigaud ; 
“ and if you have nothing better to rely upon. Maître Clement, 
1 should advise you not to count upon him.” 

“Particularly,” answered Valef, “as he has just obtained 

19 


290 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


from the regent the payment of five hundred thousand francs 
of his salary.” 

“ Oh, oh !’* said D’Harmental, “ see, it appears to me that 
something new is going on. Are they not coming out of the 
regent’s council ?” 

Indeed, a great movement was taking place in the court of 
the Tuileries, and the two carriages of the Due de Maine and 
the Comte de Toulouse left their post, and approached the 
clock pavilion. At the same instant they saw the two brothers 
appear. They exchanged few words, each got into his own 
carriage, and the two vehicles departed at a rapid pace by 
the waterside wicket. 

For ten minutes Brigaud, D’Harmental, Pompadour, and 
Valef were lost in conjectures regarding this event, which, 
having been remarked by others as well as by them, had made 
a sensation amongst the crowd, but without beingableto assign 
it to its proper cause. Then they noticed Malezieux, who 
appeared to be looking for them : they went to him, and by his 
discomposed face they judged that the information which he 
had to bring was not comforting. 

“ Well,” asked Pompadour, ** have you any idea of what 
has been going on ?” 

“ Alas !” answered Malezieux, ** I am afraid that all is 
lost.” 

“ You know that the Due de Maine and the Comte de 
Toulouse have left the council ?” asked Valef. 

“ I was pn the quay when he passed in his carriage, and he 
recognised me, and stopped the carriage, and sent me this 
little pencil note by his valet-de-chambre.” 

“ Let us see,” said Brigaud, and he read ; 

“ I do not know what is plotting against us, but the regent 
invited us — Toulouse and me — to leave the council. That 
invitation appeared tome an order, and, as all resistance would 
have been useless, seeing that we have in the council only 
four or five voices, upon which we cannot count, I was obliged 
to obey. Try and see the duchess, who must be at the 
Tuileries, and tell her that I am retiring to Rambouillet, where 
1 shall wait for the turn of events. 

** Your affectionate, 

“ Louis Auguste.” 


PARLIAMENTARY JUSTICE. 291 

“ The coward,” said Valef. 

** And these are the men for whom we risk our heads,” 
murmured Pompadour. 

“You are mistaken, my dear marquis,” said Brigaud, “ we 
risk our heads on our own account I hope, and not for others. 
Is not that true, chevalier ? Well, what the devil are you 
about now ?” 

“ Wait, abbé,” answered D’Harmental ; “ I seem to recog- 
nise yes, by heaven, it is he I You will not go away from 

this place, gentlemen !” 

“No, I answer for myself at least,” said Pompadour, 

“ Nor I,” said Valef. 

“ Nor I,” said Malezieux. 

“ Nor I,” said the abbé. 

“ Well, then, I will rejoin you in an instant.” 

“ Where are you going ?” asked Brigaud. 

“ Do not look, abbé,” said D’Harmental, “ it is on private 
business.” 

Dropping Valefs arm, D’Harmental began to traverse the 
crowd in the direction of an individual whom he had been 
following with his eyes for some time, and who, thanks to his 
personal strength, had approached the gate. 

“ Captain,” said the chevalier, tapping Roquefinette on the 
shoulder, and hoping that, thanks to the movement occasioned 
by the approach of the parliament, they should be able to 
talk without being observed, “ can I say a few words to you 
in private ?” • 

“ Yes, chevalier, with the greatest pleasure. What is it ?” 
continued he, drawing back. “ I have recognised you for 
the last five minutes, but it was not my business to speak 
first.” 

“And I see with pleasure,” said D’Harmental, “that 
Captain Roquefinette is still prudent.” 

“ Prudentissimo, chevalier ; so if you have any new over- 
ture to make, out with it.” 

‘ No, captain, no ; not at present, at least. Besides, the 
place is not suitable for a conference of that nature. Only I 
wish to know, in case of my having need of you, whether you 
still live in the same place ?” 

“ Still, chevalier ; I am like a briar — I die where I grow ; 

19 — 2 


292 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


only, instead of your finding me, as you did the first time, on 
the first or second floor, you will have to look for me on the 
fifth or sixth, seeing that, by a very natural see-saw move- 
ment, as my funds lower I go up.” 

“ How, captain,” said D’Harmental, laughing, and putting 
his hand in his pocket, “ you are in want of money, and you 
do not address yourself to your friends ?” 

“ I, borrow money !” cried the captain, stopping D’Har- 
mental’s liberal intentions with a sign ; “no ; when I do you 
a service you make me a present ; well and good. When I 
conclude a bargain you execute the conditions. But I to ask 
without having a right to ask ! It may do for a church rat, 
but not for a soldier ; although I am only a simple gentleman, 
I am as proud as a duke or a peer ; but, pardon me, if you 
want me, you know where to find me. Au revoir, chevalier ! 
au revoir 1” 

And, without waiting for D’Harmetitars answer, Roque- 
finette left him, not thinking it safe that they should be seen 
talking together. 

As it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, however, and 
as in all probability the parliament would not break up til! 
four in the afternoon, and as, no doubt, there was nothing 
determined on yet, the chevalier thought that, instead of re- 
maining on the Place du Carrousel, he would do better to 
turn the four hours which he hr^d before him to the profit of 
his love. Moreover, the nearer he approached to the catas- 
trophe, the more need he felt of seeing Bathilde. Bathilde 
had become one of the elements of his life ; one of the organs 
necessary to his existence ; and, at the moment when he 
might perhaps be separated from her for ever, he did not 
understand how he could live a single day away from her. 
Consequently, pressed by the eternal craving for the presence 
of the loved object, the chevalier, instead of going to look 
for his companions, went towards the Rue du Temps-Perdu. 

D’Harmental found the poor child very uneasy. Buvat 
had not come home since half-past nine the morning before. 
Nanette had been to inquire at the library, and to her great 
astonishment, and the scandal of his fellow-clerks, she had 
learned that he had not been there for five or six days. 
Such a derangement in Bu vat’s habits indicated serious 


PARLIAMENTARY JUSTICE. 293 

events. On the other hand, the young girl had noticed in 
Raoul, the day before, a sort of nervous agitation, which, 
although kept down by determination, gave warning of an 
important crisis. Thus, joining her old fears to her new 
agonies, Bathilde felt instinctively that a misfortune, invisible 
but inevitable, hung abcfve her, and that at any moment it 
might fall on her devoted head. 

* But when Bathilde saw Raoul, all fear, past or future, was 
lost in the happiness of the present. On his part, Raoul, 
whether it was self-command, or a similar feeling to her own, 
thought of nothing but Bathilde. Nevertheless, this time the 
pre-occupations on both sides were so powerful, that Bathilde 
could not help expressing her uneasiness to Raoul ; -he made 
but little answer, for the absence of Buvat became connected 
in his mind with some suspicions which he had entertained 
for a minute, and then cast from him. The time, neverthe- 
less, flowed away with its accustomed rapidity, and four 
o’clock struck, when the lovers fancied that they had only 
been together a few minutes. It was the hour at w’hich he 
generally took his leave. 

If Buvat returned, he would probably return at this time. 
After exchanging a hundred vows, the two young people 
separated, agreeing, that if anything new happened to either 
of them, whatever hour of the day or night it might be, they 
should let the other know directly. 

At the door of Madame Denis’ house D’Harmental met 
Brigaud. The sitting was over, and nothing positive was yet 
known, but vague rumours were afloat that terrible measures 
had been taken. The information must soon arrive, and 
Brigaud had fixed a rendezvous with Pompadour and Male- 
zieux at D’Harmental’s lodgings, which, as they were the 
least known, must be the least watched. 

In about an hour the Marquis de Pompadour arrived. The 
parliament had at first wished to make opposition, but every- 
thing had given way before the will of the regent. The King 
of Spain’s letters had been read and condemned. It had 
been decided that the dukes and peers should rank immedi- 
ately after the princes of the blood. The honours of the 
legitimated princes were restricted to the simple rank of their 
peerages. Finally, the Due de Maine lost the superinten- 


294 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


dence of the king’s education, which was given to the Due de 
Bourbon. The Comte de Toulouse alone was maintained, 
during his lifetime, in his privileges and prerogatives. Male 
zieux arrived in his turn ; he had recently left the duchess. 
They had just given her notice to quit her apartments in the 
Tuileries, which belonged henceforward to Monsieur le Duc. 
Such an affront had, as may easily be understood, exasperated 
the grand-daughter of the great Condé. She had flown into 
a violent passion, broken all the looking-glasses with her own 
hands, and had all the furniture thrown out of the window ; 
then, this performance finished, she had got into her carriage, 
sending Laval to Rambouillet, in order to urge Monsieur de 
Maine to some vigorous action, and charging Malezieux to 
assemble all her friends that evening at the Arsenal 

Pompadour and Brigand cried out against the imprudence 
of such a meeting. Madame de Maine was evidently watched. 
To go to the Arsenal the day when they must know that she 
was the most irritated would be to compromise themselves 
openly. Pompadour and Brigand were therefore in favour of 
going and begging her highness to appoint some other time 
or place for the rendezvous. Malezieux and D’Harmental 
were of the same opinion regarding the danger of the step ; 
but they both declared — the first from devotion, the second 
from a sense of duty — that the more perilous the order was, 
the more honourable it would be to obey it. 

The discussion, as always happens in similar circumstances, 
began to degenerate into a pretty sharp altercation, when they 
heard the steps of two persons mounting the stairs. As the 
three individuals who had appointed a meeting at D’Harmen- 
tal’s were all assembled, Brigaud, who, with his ear always on 
the qui-vive had heard the sound first, put his finger to his 
mouth, to impose silence on the disputants. They could 
plainly hear the steps approaching ; then a low whispering, ^ 
as of two people questioning ; finally, the door opened, and 
gave entrance to a soldier of the French guard, and a little 
grisette. i 

The guardsman was the Baron de Valef. 

As to the grisette, she threw off the little black veil which 
hid her face, and they recognised Madame de Maine. 


MAJ^ morosEs, 


295 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

MAN PROPOSES. 

** VouR highness ! your highness at my lodging !” cried 
D’Harmental. ‘‘What have I done to merit such an 
honour ?” 

“The hour is come, chevalier,” said the duchess, “when 
it is right that we should show people the opinion we hold 
of their merits. It shall never be said that the friends of 
Madame de Maine expose themselves for her, and that she 
docs not expose herself with them. Thank God, I am the 
grand-daughter of the great Condé, and I feel that I am 
worthy of my ancestor.” 

“ Your highness is most welcome,” said Pompadour; “ for 
your arrival will get us out of a difficulty. Decided, as we 
were, to obey your orders, we nevertheless hesitated at the 
idea of the danger incurred by an assembly at the Arsenal, at 
such a moment as the present, when the police have their 
eyes upon it” 

“ And I thought with you, marquis ; so, instead of waiting 
for you, I resolved to come and seek you. The baron ac- 
companied mo. I went to the house of the Comtesse de 
Chavigny, a friend of De Launay’s, who lives in the Rue du 
Mail. We had clothes brought there ; and, as we were only 
a few steps off, we came here on foot, and here we are. On 
my honour, Messire Voyer d’Argenson would be clever, 
indeed, if he recognised us in this disguise.” 

“ I see, with pleasure,” said Malezieux, “ that your high- 
ness is not cast down by the events of this horrible day.” 

“ Cast down ! I ! Malezieux, I hope you know me too 
well to have feared it for a single instant. Cast down I On 
the contrary, I never felt more vigour, or more determina- 
tion. Oh, if I only were a man 1” 

“ Let your highness command,” said D’Harmental, “and 
everything that you could do if you could act yourself, we 
will do — we, who stand in your stead.” 


296 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ No, no ; it is impossible that any other should do that 
which I should have done.” 

“Nothing is impossible, madame, to five men as devoted as 
weare. Moreover, our interest demands aprompt and energetic 
course of action. It is not reasonable to believe that the 
regent will stop there. The day after to-morrow — to-morrow 
evening, perhaps — we shall all be arrested. Dubois gives 
out that the paper which he saved from the flames at the 
Prince of Cellamare’s is nothing less than the list of the con- 
spirators. In that case, he knows all our names. We have, 
then, at this very moment, a sword hanging over each of our 
heads ; do not let us wait tamely till the thread which sus- 
pends it snaps ; let us seize it, and strike !” 

“ Strike 1 What — where — and how ?” asked Brigaud. 
“ That abominable parliament has destroyed all our schemes. 
Have we measures taken, or a plot made out T 

“ The best plan which has been conceived,” said Pompa- 
dour, “ and the one which offered the greatest chance of suc- 
cess, was the first ; and the proof is, that it was only over- 
thrown by an unheard-of circumstance.” 

“ Well, if the plan was good then, it is so still,” said Valef ; 
“ let us return to it 1” 

“ Yes, but in failing,” said Malezieux, “ this plan put the 
regent on his guard.” 

“ On the contrary,” said Pompadour ; “ in consequence of 
that very failure, it will be supposed that we have aban- 
doned it.” 

“ And the proof is,” said Valef, “ that the regent, on this 
head, takes fewer precautions than ever. For example — 
since his daughter. Mademoiselle de Chartres, has become 
Abbess of Chelles, he goes to see her every week, and he 
goes through the wood of Vincennes without guards, and 
with only a coachman and two lacqueys, and that at eight or 
nine o’clock at night.” 

“ And what day doe he pay this visit ?” asked Brigaud. 

“ Wednesday.” 

“ That is to-morrow,” said the duchess. 

“ Brigaud,” said Valef, “ have you still the passport for 
Spain?” 

“ Yes.” 


MAN PROPOSES. 


297 


“ And the same facilities for the route ?” 

“ The same. The postmaster is with us, and we shall have 
only to explain to him.” 

** Well,” said Valef, “if royal hignness wull allow me, 
I will to-morrow call together seven or eight friends, wait for 
the regent in the Bois de Vincennes, carry him off ; and in 
three days I am at Pampeluna.” 

“ An instant, my dear baron,” said D’Harmental. “ I 
would observe to you that you are stepping into my shoes, 
and that this undertaking belongs to me of right.” 

“You, my dear chevalier ! you have already done what 
you had to do; now it is our turn.” 

“ Not at all, if you please, Valef. My honour is concerned 
in it, for I have revenge to take. You would annoy me 
infinitely by insisting on this subject.” 

“ All that I can do for you, my dear D’Harmental,” said 
Valef, “ is to leave it to her highness’ choice. She knows 
that we are equally devoted to her; let her decide.” 

“ Will you accept my arbitration, chevalier,” said the 
duchess. 

“ Yes, for I trust to your justice, madame,” said D’Har- 
mental. 

“ And you are right , yes, the honour of the undertaking 
belongs to you. I place in your hands the fate of the son of 
Louis the Fourteenth, and the grand-daughter of the great 
Condé. I trust entirely to your devotion and courage, and I 
have the greater hope of your success, that fortune owes you 
a compensation. To you, my dear D’Harmental, all the 
honour, and all the peril.” 

“ I accept both with gratitude,” said D’Harmental, kissing 
the duchess’ hand ; “ and to-morrow, at this hour, I shall be 
dead, or the regent will be on the way to Spain.” 

“ Very good,” said Pompadour, “ that is what I call speak- 
ing ; and if you want any one to give you a helping hand, my 
dear chevalier, count on me.” 

“ And on me,” said Valef. 

“ And are we good for nothing ?” said Malezieux. 

“ My dear chancellor,” said the duchess, “ to each one his 
share. To poets, churchmen, and magistrates, advice; to 
soldiers, execution. Chevalier, are you sure of finding the 
men who assisted you before ?” 


29S THE CONSPIRA TORS, 

“ I am sure of their chief, at least” 

When shall you see him T' 

“ This evening.” 

“ At what time ?” 

“ Directly, if your highness wishes it” 

“ The sooner the better.” 

“ In a quarter of an hour I will be ready.” 

“ Where can we learn the result of the interview ?” 

“I will come to your highness, wheresoever you may be.” 

“ Not at the Arsenal,” said Brigaud, “ it is too dangerous.” 

“ Can we not wait here ?” asked the duchess. 

“ Remember,” said Brigaud, “ that my pupil is a steady 
fellow, receiving scarcely any one, and that a long visit might 
arouse suspicion.” 

“ Can we not fix a rendezvous where there would be no 
such fear ?” asked Pompadour. 

“Certainly,” said the duchess, “at the stone in the Champs 
Elysées, for instance. Malezieux and I will come there in a 
carriage without livery, and without arms. Pompadour, 
Valef, and Brigaud will meet us there, each one separately ; 
there we will wait for D’Harmental, and settle the last mea- 
sure.” 

“ That will suit well,” said D’Harmental, “ for my man 
lives in the Rue Saint Honoré.” 

“You know, chevalier,” replied the duchess, “that you 
may promise as much money as you like.” 

“ I undertake to fill the purse,” said Brigaud. 

“ That is well, abbé, for I know who will undertake to 
empty it,” said D’Harmental. 

“ Then all is agreed,” said the duchess. “ In an hour, in 
the Champs Elysées.” 

Then the duchess — having readjusted her mantle so as to 
hide her face — took Valef’s arm, and went out. Malezieux 
followed at a little distance, taking care not to lose sight of 
her. Brigaud and Pompadour went out together, and 
D’Harmental went directly to the Rue Saint Honoré. 

Whether it were chance, or calculation on the part of the 
duchess, who appreciated D’Harmental, and understood how 
fully she might rely upon him, the chevalier found himself 
more than ever put forward in the conspiracy: but his 


MAN PROPOSES, 


299 


honour was engaged ; and although he foresaw the terrible 
consequences of the step which he was about to take, he 
went boldly forward, resolved to sacrifice everything, even 
his life and his love, to the fulfilment of his promise. 

He presented himself at La Fillon’s with the same tran- 
quillity as before, although many things were altered in his 
life since then, and having been, as before, received by the 
mistress of the house in person he inquired if Captain 
Roquefinette were visible. 

Without doubt La Fillon had expected a much less moral 
demand ; for on recognising D’Harmental, she could not 
repress a movement of surprise. However, she asked if he 
were not the same person, who — two months before — had 
come there to inquire for the captain. D’Harmental replied 
in the affirmative. As soon as she was informed on this 
point, she called a servant, and ordered her to conduct the 
chevalier to No. 72. The girl obeyed, taking a candle, and 
going before D’Harmental, who followed her. This time, 
no songs guided him in his ascent ] all was silent in the 
house ; and as the chevalier himself w^as occupied with grave 
thoughts, he mounted the six flights, and knocked at once at 
the door. 

“ Enter,” said Roquefinette. 

The chevalier slipped a louis into the servant’s hand, 
opened the door, and went in. 

The same change was observable in the interior as in the 
exterior. Roquefinette was no longer, as on the first occa- 
sion, sitting among the débris of a feast, surrounded by 
slaves, smoking his long pipe. He was alone, in a little dark 
attic, lighted by a single candle, which, nearly burnt out, gave 
more smoke than flame, and whose flickering light gave a 
strange expression to the harsh face of the brave captain, who 
was standing leaning against the chimney-piece. 

“Ah !” said Roquefinette in a slightly ironical tone, “it 
is you, chevalier ; I expected you.” 

“ You expected me, captain ! and what induced you to 
do so?” 

“ Events, chevalier ; events.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that you thought you could make opeo war, and 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


300 

consequently put poor Captain Roquefi nette aside, as a 
bandit, who is good for nothing but a nocturnal blow at a 
street corner, or in a wood ; and now Dubois knows all ; 
the parliament, on whom we thought we might count, have 
failed us, and has said yes, instead of no. Now we come 
back to the captain. My dear captain here ! my good cap- 
tain there ! Is not this exactly as it has happened, cheva- 
lier ? Well, here is the captain, what do you want of him ? 
Speak.” 

“ Really, my dear captain,” said D’Harmental, not know- 
ing exactly how to take this speech, “ there is some truth in 
what you say. Only you are mistaken if you think we had 
forgotten you. If our plan had succeeded, you would have 
had proof that my memory was better, and I should have 
come to offer you my credit, as I now come to ask your 
assistance.” 

“ Hum !” said the captain ; “ for the last three days, since 
I have inhabited this new apartment, I have made many 
reflections on the vanity of human things, and have more 
than once felt inclined to retire altogether from these affairs, 
or — if I did undertake one — to take care that it should be 
sufficiently brilliant to ensure my future.” 

“What I come to propose to you is just the thing. With- 
out preamble, it is ” 

“ What ?” asked the captain, after waiting two or three 
minutes in vain for the end of the speech. 

“ Oh captain, I thought ” 

“ What did you think, chevalier ?” 

“I thought I heard steps — a sort of creaking in the 
wall.” 

“ Ah 1” said the captain, “ there are not a few rats in this 
establishment, I can tell you.” 

“Oh, that must be it !” said D’HarmentaL “Well ! my 
dear Roquefinette, we wish to profit by the regent’s returning 
unguarded from Chelles, to carry him off, and take him to 
Spain,” 

“ Before going any further,” said Roquefinette, “ I must 
warn you that this is a new treaty, and that every new treaty 
implies new conditions.” 

“No need of discussions or that point. You shall fix them 
yourself ; but can you still dispose" of your men ?” 


l/AJV P/iOPOSES, 


301 


«I can.*» 

“ Will they be ready at two o’clock to-morrow ?*» 

“ They will.’' 

“ That is all that is necessary’. ” 

“ Something^ else is necessary — money to buy a horse and 
arms.” 

“ There are a hundred louis in that purse ; take it.’* 

“ It is well You shall have an account of it.” 

“ Then to-morrow at my house at two o’clock.” 

“ It is agreed, chevalier ; you are not to be astonished if 
I am a little exacting.” 

“ You know that last time I only complained of your being 
too modest.” 

‘‘ Very well, that will do,” said the captain, ‘‘you are easily 
satisfied. Let me light you ; it would be a pity that a brave 
fellow like you should break his neck.” 

And the captain took the candle, which, now burnt down to 
the paper, threw a splendid light over the staircase. 

D’Harmental had not forgotten that Madame de Maine 
waited with anxiety for the result of the interview. He did 
not trouble himself, therefore, about what had become of 
La Fillon, whom he did not see on leaving : and having gone 
down the Rue des Feuillons, he passed along the Champs 
Elysées, which, without being altogether deserted, was never- 
theless almost solitary. Having arrived at the stone, he 
noticed a carriage standing on the opposite side of the road, 
while two men were walking at a little distance off in the 
cross-road. He approached the carriage ; a woman, seeing 
him, put her head impatiently out of the window. The 
chevalier recognised Madame de Maine ; Malezieux and 
Valef w'ere with her. As to the walkers, w ho, seeing D’Har- 
mental, approached the vehicle, it is needless to say that they 
were Brigand and Pompadour. 

The chevalier, without naming Roquefinette, or enlarging 
on tne character of the illustrious captain, told them in a few 
words what had passed. This recital was welcomed by a 
general exclamation of joy. The duchess gave D’Harmental 
her hand to kiss ; the men pressed his. It was agreed that 
the next day at two o’clock the duchess, Pompadour, Laval, 
Valef, Malezieux, and Brigaud, should meet at No. 15, 


302 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


Faubourg Saint Antoine, a house occupied by D*Avranches* 
mother, and that they should there await the event. 

The result was to be announced to them by D’Avranches 
himself, who, at three o’clock, should be at the Barrière du 
Trône with two horses, one for himself, the other for the 
chevalier. He was to follow D’Harmental at a distance, and 
return to announce what had passed. Five other horses, 
saddled and bridled, were to be ready in the stables of the 
house in the Faubourg Saint Antoine, so that the conspira- 
tors might fly at once in case of the chevalier’s failure. 

These plans settled, the duchess forced the chevalier to seat 
himself beside her. The duchess wished to drive him home, 
but he told her that the appearance of a carriage at Madame 
Denis’s door would produce too much sensation, and that, 
flattering as it would be to him, it would be too dangerous for 
all. In consequence, the duchess set D’Harmental down in 
the Place des Victoires, after repeatedly expressing her grati- 
tude for his devotion. It was ten o’clock in the evening. 
D’Harmental had scarcely seen Bathilde during the day ; he 
wished to see her again ; he was sure to find her at her 
window, but that was not sufficient, for what he had to say 
was too serious to be thus spoken from one side to the other of 
the street 

He was thinking under what pretext he could present him- 
self at such a late hour, when he thought he saw a woman at 
the door of her house. He advanced and recognised Nanette, 
who was there by Bathilde’s order. The poor girl was dread- 
fully uneasy, Buvat not having returned. All the evening 
she had remained at the window to watch for D’Harmental, 
but had not seen him. It seemed to Bathilde that there must 
be some connection between Buvat’s strange disappearance 
and the melancholy which she had remarked the day before 
in D’Harmental’s face. Nanette was waiting at the door for 
Buvat and D’Harmental ; she now waited for Buvat, and 
D’Harmental went up to Bathilde. 

Bathilde had heard and recognised his step, and ran to 
open the door. At the first glance she noticed the pensive 
expression of his face. 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu, Raoul I” she exclaimed, “ has anything 
happened to you 


MAN PROPOSES, 


303 


“ Bathilde,” said D’Harmental, with a melancholy smile, 
“ you have often told me that there is in me something mys- 
terious which frightens you.” 

“ Yes,” cried Bathilde ; “ it is the only torment of my life ; 
my only fear for the future.” 

“ And you are right ; for before I knew you, Bathilde, I 
had abandoned a part of my free-will ; this portion of myself 
no longer belongs to me, but submits to a supreme law, and 
to unforeseen events. It is a black point in a clear sky. Ac- 
cording to the way the wind blows, it may disappear as a 
vapour or increase into a storm. The hand which holds and 
guides mine may lead me to the highest favour or to the most 
complete disgrace. Tell me, Bathilde, are you disposed to 
share my good and evil fortune ; the calm and the tempest ?” 

“ Everything with you, Raoul.” 

“ Think of what you are undertaking, Bathilde. It may 
be a happy and a brilliant life which is reserved for you ; it 
may be exile ; it may be captivity ; it may be that you will 
be a widow before you are a wife.” 

Bathilde turned so pale that Raoul thought she would fall; 
but she quickly regained her self-command, and, holding out 
her hand to D’Harmental, — 

“ Raoul,” said she, have I not already told you that I 
love you ; that I never have and never can love any other? 
It seems to me that all these promises you ask are included 
in those words ; but since you wish them renewed, I do so. 
Your life shall be my life, and your death my death ; both 
are in the hands of God.” 

“ And I, Bathilde,” said D’Harmental, leading her before 
the crucifix, “ I swear that from this moment you are my 
wife before God and before men ; and since the events which 
may dispose of my life leave me nothing but my love to offer 
to you, that love is yours — profound, unalterable, eternal 
and the young people exchanged their first kiss with the re- 
newal of their vows. 

When D’Harmental left Bathilde, Buvat had not returned. 


304 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

DAVID AND GOLIATH. 

Towards ten o’clock in the morning the Abbé Brigand 
entered D’Karmental’s room ; he brought him 20,000 francs, 
partly in gold, partly in Spanish paper. The duchess had 
passed the night at the Comtesse de Chavigny’s, in the Rue 
du Mail. The plans of the preceding day were in no degree 
changed, and they had ascertained that the regent would pay 
his accustomed visit to Chelles. At ten o’clock Brigand and 
D’Harmental went down. Brigand to join Pompadour and 
Valef on the Boulevard du Temple, and D’Harmental to visit 
Bathilde. 

Uneasiness was at its height in the little household ; Buvat 
was still absent, and it was easy to see by Bathilde’s eyes that 
she had had but little sleep. As soon as she saw D’Har- 
mental, she understood that some expedition was preparing. 
D’Harmental again wore that dark costume in whirh she had 
never seen him but on that evening when, on returning, he 
had thrown his mantle on a chair, and displayed to her sight 
the pistols in his belt. Moreover, she saw by his spurs that 
he expected to ride during the day. All these things would 
have appeared insignificant at any other time, but, after the 
nocturnal betrothal we have described, they took a new and 
grave importance. Bathilde tried at first to make the cheva- 
lier speak, but he told her that the secret she asked did not 
belong to himself, and she desisted. An hour after, Nanette 
appeared, with a distressed face. She came from the library; 
Buvat had not been there, and no one had heard anything of 
bim 

Bathilde could contain herself no longer; she fell into 
Raoul’s arms, and burst into tears. Then Raoul confessed to 
her his fears, and that the papers which the pretended Prince 
de Listhnay had given Buvat to copy were politically im- 
portant, by which he might have been compromised and 


1>A VID AND GOLIA TH. 


305 


arrested, but had nothing to fear, and that the passive part 
which he had played in this affair did not endanger him in 
the least. 

Bathilde, having feared some much greater misfortune, 
eagerly seized on this idea. She did not confess to herself 
that the greater part of her uneasiness was not for Buvat, and 
that all the tears she shed were not for the absent. 

When D’Harmental was near Bathilde, time appeared to 
fly ; he was astonished when he found that he had been with 
her an hour and a half, and remembering that at two o’clock 
he had to arrange his new treaty with Roquefi nette, he rose 
to go. Bathilde turned pale. D’Harmental, to reassure her, 
promised to come to her again after the departure of the 
person he expected. 

The chevalier had only been a few minutes at his window 
when he saw Roquefi nette appear at the corner of the Rue 
Montmartre. He was mounted on a dapple-grey horse, both 
swift and strong, and evidently chosen by a connoisseur. He 
came along leisurely, like a man to whom it is equally in- 
different whether he is seen or not. On arriving at the door 
he dismounted, fastened up his horse, and ascended the 
stairs. As on the day before, his face was grave and pensive, 
his compressed lips indicated some fixed determination, and 
D’Harmental received him with a smile, which met with no 
answer on the captain’s face. D’Harmental at a glance took 
in all these different signs. 

“Well, captain,” said he, “I see that you are still punc- 
tuality itself.” 

“ It is a military habit, chevalier, and is not astonishing ia 
an old soldier.” 

“ I did not doubt you, but you might not have been able 
to meet your men.” 

“ I told you I knew where to find them.” 

“ And where are they ?” 

“In the horse-market at the Porte Saint Martin.” 

“Are you not afraid they will be noticed?” 

“ How should twelve or fifteen men dressed as peasants 
be noticed among three hundred other peasants, buying and 
selling horses ? It is like a needle in a bottle of hay, which 
none but myself can find.” 


20 


3o6 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ But how can these men accompany you, captain 

“ The simplest thing in the world. Each one has bar- 
gained for the horse which suits him. Each one has offered 
a price, to which the vendor replies by another. I arrive, 
give to each twenty-five or thirty louis. Everyone pays for 
his horse, has it saddled, mounts, slips into the holsters the 
pistols which he has in his belt, and, by a different route, 
arrives at a given place in the Bois de Vincennes at four 
o’clock. Then only I explain to them for what they are 
wanted. I again distribute money, put myself at the head of 
my squadron, and go to the work — supposing that you and 1 
agree on the conditions.” 

“ Well, these conditions, captain,” said D’Harmental, “ let 
us discuss them, and I think I have arranged so that you will 
be satisfied with what I have to offer you.” 

“ Let us hear them,” said Roquefinette, sitting down by the 
table. 

“ First, double the sum you received last time,” said the 
chevalier. 

“ Ah 1” said Roquefinette, ** I do not care for money.*® 

“ What ! you do not care for money, captain T 

“ Not the least in the world.” 

“ What do you care for, then ?* 

“A position.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean, chevalier, that every day T am four-and-twenty 
hours older, and that with age comes philosophy.” 

“Well, captain,” said D’Harmental, beginning to be 
seriously uneasy, “ what is the ambition of your philosophy?’' 

“ I have told you, chevalier. A position suitable to my 
long services — not in France, you understand. In France I 
have too many enemies, beginning with the lieutenant of 
police ; but in Spain, for instance. Ah 1 that would suit me 
well A fine country — beautiful women— plenty of doub- 
loons 1 Decidedly, I should like a rank in Spain.” 

“ The thing is possible ; it depends on the rank you 
desire.’* 

“ Well, you know, chevalier, when one is wishing, it is as 
well to wish for something worth the trouble.” 

“You make me uneasy, monsieur,” said D’Harmental, 


DAVID AND GOLIATH, 


307 

•‘ for I have not the seals of King Philip, to sign brevets in 
his name. But never mind ; speak.” 

“Well,” said Roquefinette, “ I see so many greenhorns at 
the heads of regiments, that I also have thought of being a 
colonel.” 

“ Colonel ? Impossible 

“ Why so ?” 

“ Because, if they make you a colonel, you who only hold 
a secondary position in the affair, what am I to ask, I, who 
apa at the head ?” 

“ That is the very thing ; I wish to change positions for 
the moment. You remember what I said to you on a certain 
evening in the Rue du Valois?” 

“Aid my memory, captain. I have unfortunately for- 
gotten.” 

“ I told you that if I had an affair like this to manage, 
things would go better. I added that I would speak to you 
of it again. I do so now.” 

“What the devil are you talking about, captain?” 

“A simple matter, chevalier. We made a first attempt 
together, which failed. Then you changed batteries ; you 
thought you could do without me, and you failed again. The 
first time you failed at night, and without noise : we each 
went our own way, and there was nothing known about it. 
The second time, on the contrary, you failed in broad day- 
light, and with an éclat which has compromised all ; so that 
if you do not save yourselves by a bold stroke, you are all lost, 
as Dubois has your names ; and to-morrow — to-night per- 
haps — you may be all arrested, knights, barons, dukes, and 
princes. Now, there is in the world one man, and one only, 
who can free you from your troubles — that man is Captain 
Roquefinette, and you offer him the same place he held 
before 1 Fie, chevalier ! — you wish to bargain with him. 
Remember, pretensions increase with the services to be 
rendered. I am now an important personage. Treat me as 
such, or I put my hands in my pockets, and leave Dubois to 
do as he likes.” 

D’Harmental bit his lips, but he understood that he had 
to treat with a man who was accustomed to sell his services 
as dear as possible \ and as what the captain said of their 

20 — 3 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


508 

necessity was literally true, he restrained his impatience and 
his pride. 

Then you wish to be a colonel ?” 

“ That is my idea.” 

“ But suppose I make you this promise, who can answer 
^hat I have influence enough to ratify it ?” 

“Oh, chevalier, I reckon on managing my little affairs 
myself.” 

“Where?” 

“ At Madrid.” 

“ Who told you that I shall take you there ** 

“ I do not know if you will take me there, but I know 
that I shall go there.” 

“ You, to Madrid ! What for ?” 

“ To take the regent” 

• You are mad.” 

“ Come, come, chevalier, no big words. You ask my con- 
ditions; I tell them you. They do not suit you : good evening. 
We are not the worse friends for that” 

And Roquefinette rose, took his hat, and was going towards 
the door. 

“ What, are you going ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ But you forget, captain.” 

“ Ah ! it is true,” said Roquefinette, intentionally mistak- 
ing D’Harmental’s meaning: “ you gave me a hundred louis ; 
I must give you an account of them.” 

He took his purse from his pocket 

“A horse, thirty louis; a pair of double-barrelled pistols, 
ten louis; a saddle, bridle, etc., two louis; total, forty-two 
louis. There are fifty-eight louis in this purse ; the horse, 
pistols, saddle, and bridle, are yours. Count, we are quits.” 

And he threw the purse on the table. 

“ But that is not what I have to say to you, captain.” 

“ What is it, then ?” 

“ That it is impossible to confide to you a mission of .such 
importance.” 

“ It must be so, nevertheless, or not at all I must take 
the regent to Madrid, and I alone, or he remains at the 
Palais Royal” 


DAVID AND GOUATH. 309 

And you think yourself worthy to take from the hands 
of Phillippe d’Orleans the sword which conquered at Lérida 
La Pucelle, and which rested by the sceptre of Louis XIV., 
on the velvet cushion with the golden tassels ?’’ 

“ I heard in Italy that Francis I., at the battle of Pavia, 
gave up his to a butcher.” 

And the captain pressed his hat on his head, and once 
ïpore approached the door. 

^ ‘‘ Listen, captain,” said D’Harmental, in his most con- 
ciliating tone ; “ a truce to arguments and quotations ; let 
us split the difference. I will conduct the regent to Spain, 
and you shall accompany me.” 

“ Yes, so that the poor captain may be lost in the dust 
which the dashing chevalier excites, and that the brilliant 
colonel may throw the old bandit into the shade ! Impos- 
sible, chevalier, impossible ! I will have the management of 
the affair, or I will have nothing to do with it” 

But this is treason !” cried D’Harmental. 

“ Treason, chevalier I And where have you seen, if you 
please, that Captain Roquefinette was a traitor? Where are 
the agreements which I have made and not kept? Where 
are the secrets which I have divulged ? I, a traitor ! Good 
heavens, chevalier, it was only the day before yesterday that 
I was offered gold to betray you, and I refused ! No, no 1 
Yesterday you came and asked me to aid you a second time. 
I told you that I was ready, but on new conditions. Well, 
I have just told you those conditions. Accept them or refuse 
them. Where do you see treason in all this ?” 

“ And if I was weak enough to accept these conditions, 
monsieur, do you imagine that the confidence which her royal 
highness the Duchesse de Maine reposes in the Chevalier 
d’Harmental can be transferred to Captain Roquefinette ?” 

“ And what has the Duchesse de Maine to remark upon in 
this? You undertake a piece of business. There are material 
hindrances in the way of your executing it yourself. You 
hand it over to me. That is all.” 

“ That is to say,” answered D’Harmental, shaking his 
head, “ that you wish to be free to loose the regent, if the 
regent offers you, for leaving him in France, twice as much 
as I offer you for taking him to Spain.’* 


310 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ Perhaps,” replied Roquefinette. 

“ Hearken, captain,” said D’Harmental, making a new 
effort to retain his sang-froid, and endeavouring to renew 
the negotiations, “ I will give you twenty thousand francs 
down.” 

“ Trash,” answered the captain. f 

“ I will take you with me to Spain.** 

“ Fiddlesticks.” 

“ And I engage on my honour to obtain you a regiment” 

Roquefinette began to hum a tune. 

“Take care,” said D’Harmental; “it is more dangerous 
for you now, at the point at which we have arrived, and with 
the terrible secrets which you know, to refuse than to 
accept” 

“ And what will happen, then, if I refuse ?” asked Roque- 
finette. 

“ It will happen, captain, that you will not leave this 
room.” 

“ And who will prevent me ?” 

“I !” cried D’Harmental, bounding before the door, a pistol 
in each hand. 

“ You ?” said Roquefinette, making a step towards the 
chevalier, and then crossing his arms and regarding him 
fixedly. 

“ One step more, captain,” said the chevalier, “ and I give 
you my word I will blow your brains out.” 

“ You blow my brains out — you I In the first place, it is 
necessary for that, that you should not tremble like an old 
woman. Do you know what you will do ? You will miss me ; 
the noise will alarm the neighbours, who will call the guard, 
and they will question me as to the reasons of your shooting 
at me, and I shall be obliged to tell them.” 

“ Yes, you are right, captain,” cried the chevalier, uncock- 
ing his pistols, and replacing them in his belt, “ and I shall 
be obliged to kill you more honourably than you deserve. 
Draw, monsieur, draw.” 

And D’Harmental, leaning his left foot against the door, 
drew his sword, and placed himself on guard. It was a court 
sword, a thin ribbon of steel, set in a gold handle. Roque- 
finette began to laugh. 


DAVID AND GOLIATH, 


3i> 

“With what shall I defend myself, chevalier? Do you 
happen to have one of your mistress’ knitting needles here ?” 

“ Defend yourself with your own sword, monsieur ; long as 
it is, you see that I am placed so that I cannot make a step 
to avoid it.” 

“ What do you think of that, my dear ?” said the captain, 
addressing his blade. 

“ It thinks that you are a coward, captain,” cried D’Har- 
mental, “ since it is necessary to strike you in the face to make 
you fight.” And with a movement as quick as lightning, 
D’Harmental cut the captain across the face with his rapier, 
leaving on the cheek a long blue mark like the mark of a 
whip. 

Roquefinette gave a cry which might have been taken for 
the roaring of a lion, and bounding back a step, threw himself 
on guard, his sword in his hand. Then began between these 
two men a duel, terrible, hidden, silent, for both were intent 
on their work, and each understood what sort of an adver- 
sary he had to contend with. By a reaction, very easy to be 
understood, it was now D’Harmental who was calm, and 
Roquefinette who was excited. Every instant he menaced 
D’Harmental with his long sword, but the frail rapier followed 
it as iron follows the loadstone, twisting and spinning round 
it like a viper. At the end of about five minutes the che- 
valier had not made a single lunge, but he had parried all those 
of his adversary. At last, on a more rapid thrust than the 
others, he came too late to the parry, and felt the point of 
his adversary’s sword at his breast. At the same time a red 
spot spread from his shirt to his lace frill. D’Harmental saw 
it, and with a spring engaged so near to Roquefinette that the 
hilts almost touched. The captain instantly saw the dis- 
advantage of his long sword in such a position. A thrust “sur 
les armes ” and he was lost ; he made a spring backwards, 
his foot slipped on the newly-waxed floor, and his sword-hand 
rose in spite of himself. Almost by instinct D’Harmental 
profited by it, lunged within, and pierced the captain’s chest, 
where the blade disappeared to the hilt. D’Harmental 
recovered to parry in return, but the precaution was needless ; 
the captain stood still an instant, opened his eyes wildly, the 
sword dropped from his grasp, and pressing his two hands to 
the wound, he fell at full length on the floor. 


312 


THE CO ASP/E A TOES. 


“Curse the rapier !” murmured he, and expired; the strip 
of steel had pierced his heart. 

Stili D’Harmental remained on guard, with his eyes fixed 
on the captain, only lowering his sword as the dead man let 
his slip. Finally, he found himself face to face with a corpse, 
but this corpse had its eyes open, and continued to look at 
him. Leaning against the door, the chevalier remained an 
instant thunderstruck ; his hair bristled, his forehead became 
covered with perspiration, he did not dare to move, he did 
not dare to speak, his victory seemed to him a dream. Sud- 
denly the mouth of the dying man set in a last convulsion — * 
^he partisan was dead, and his secret had died with him. 

How to recognise, in the midst of three hundred peasants, 
buying and selling horses, the twelve or fifteen pretended 
ones who were to carry off the regent ? 

D’Harmental gave a low cry ; he would have given ten 
years of his own life to add ten minutes to that of the captain. 
He took the body in his arms, raised it, called it, and, seeing 
his reddened hands, let it fall into a sea of blood, which, 
following the inclination of the boards down a channel in the 
floor, reached the door, and began to spread over the threshold. 

At that moment, the horse, which was tied to the shutter, 
neighed violently. 

D’Harmental made three steps towards the door, then he 
remembered that Roquefinette might have some memoran- 
dum about him which might serve as a guide. In spite of 
his repugnance, he searched the pockets of the corpse, one 
after another, but the only papers he found were two oi 
three old bills of restaurateurs, and a love-letter from La 
Normande. 

Then, as he had nothing more to do in that room, he filled 
his pockets with gold and notes, closed the door after him, 
descended the stairs rapidly, left at a gallop towards the Rue 
Gros Chenet, and disappeared round the angle nearest to the 
Boulevard. 


THE SA VIOUE OE FRANCE. 


S13 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE SAVIOUR OF FRANCE. 

While these terrible events were going forward in the attic 
of Madame Denis’ house, Bathilde, uneasy at seeing her 
neighbour’s window so long shut, had opened hers, and the 
first thing she saw was the dappled grey horse attached to the 
shutter; but as she had not seen the captain go in, she thought 
that the steed was for Raoul, and that reflection immediately 
recalled both her former and present fears. 

Bathilde consequently remained at the window, looking on 
all sides, and trying to read in the physiognomy of every 
passer-by whether that individual was an actor in the myste- 
rious drama which was preparing, and in which she instinc* 
tively understood that Raoul was to play the chief part. She 
remained, then, with a beating heart, her neck stretched out, 
and her eyes wandering hither and thither, when all at once 
her unquiet glances concentrated on a point. The young 
girl gave a cry of joy, for she saw Buvat coming round the 
corner from the Rue Montmartre. Indeed, it was the worthy 
caligraphist in person, who, looking behind him from time to 
time — as if he feared pursuit — advanced with his cane hori- 
zontal, and at as swift a run as his little legs permitted. 

While he enters, and embraces his ward, let us look back 
and relate the causes of that absence, which, doubtless, caused 
as much uneasiness to our readers as to Nanette and Bathilde. 

It will be remembered how Buvat — driven by fear of tor- 
ture to the revelation of the conspiracy — had been forced by 
Dubois to make every day, at his house, a copy of the docu- 
ments which the pretended Prince de Listhnay had given him. 
It was thus that the minister of the regent had successively 
learned all the projects of the conspirators, which he had de- 
feated by the arrest of Marshal Villeroy, and by the convoca- 
tion of parliament. 

Buvat had been at work as usual, but about four o’clock, 


314 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


as he rose, and took his hat in one hand and his cane in the 
other, Dubois came in and took him into a little room above 
that where he had been working, and, having arrived there, 
asked him what he thought of the apartment. Flattered by 
this deference of the prime minister’s to his judgment, Buvat 
hastened to reply that he thought it very agreeable. 

“ So much the better,” answered Dubois, “and 1 am very 
glad that it is to your taste, for it is yours.” 

“ Mine !” cried Buvat, astonished. 

“ Certainly ; is it astonishing that I should wish to have 
under my hand, or rather, under my eyes, a personage as im- 
portant as yourself?” 

“Butj” asked Buvat, “am I then going to live in the 
Palais Royal ?” 

“ For some days, at least,” answered Dubois. 

“ Monseigneur, let me at all events inform Bathilde.” 

“ That is just the thing. Bathilde must not be informed.” 

“ But you will permit that the first time I go out ” 

“ As long as you remain here you will not go out.” 

“But,” cried Buvat, with terror, “but I am then a 
prisoner ?” 

“ A State prisoner, as you have said, my dear Buvat : but 
calm yourself ; your captivity will not be long, and while it 
lasts we will take of you all the care which is the due of the 
saviour of France, for you have saved France, Monsieur 
Buvat.” 

“ I have saved France, and here I am a prisoner under 
bolts and bars !” 

“And where on earth do you see bolts and bars, my dear 
Buvat?” said Dubois, laughing; “the door shuts with a 
latch, and has not even a lock : as to the window, yours 
looks on the gardens of the Palais Royal, and has not even 
a lattice to intercept the view, a superb view — you are lodged 
here like the regent himself.” 

“ Oh, my little room ! Oh, my terrace !” cried Buvat, 
letting himself sink exhausted on a seat 

Dubois, who had no other consolation to bestow upon 
Buvat, went out, and placed a sentinel at the door. The 
explanation of this step is easy. Dubois feared that, seeing 
the arrest of Villeroy, they would suspect from whence the 


THE SAVIOUR OF FRANCE, 


31S 


information came, and would question Buvat, and that he 
would confess all. This confession would, doubtless, have 
arrested the conspirators in the midst of their schemes, 
which on the contrary, Dubois, informed beforehand of all 
their plans, wished to see carried to a point, so that in 
crushing one monster rebellion he might put an end to all 
lesser ones. 

Towards eight o’clock, as daylight began to fade, Buvat 
heard a great noise at his door, and a sort of metallic clash- 
ing, which did not tend to reassure him. He had heard 
plenty of lamentable stories of State prisoners who had been 
assassinated in their prisons, and he rose trembling and ran 
to the window. The court and gardens of the Palais Royal 
were full of people, the galleries began to be lighted up, the 
whole scene was full of gaiety and light. He heaved a pro- 
found sigh, thinking perhaps that he might be bidding a last 
adieu to that life and animation. At that instant the door 
was opened ; Buvat turned round shuddering, and saw two 
tall footmen in red livery bringing in a well-supplied table. 
The metallic noise which had so much disturbed him had 
been the clattering of the silver plates and dishes. 

Buvat's first impression was one of thankfulness to Heaven, 
that so imminent a danger as that which he had feared had 
changed into such a satisfactory event. But immediately the 
idea struck him that the deadly intentions held towards him 
were still the same, and that only the mode of their execu- 
tion were changed — instead of being assassinated, like Jean- 
sans-Peur, or the Due de Guise, he was going to be poisoned, 
like the Dauphin, or the Due de Burgundy. He threw a 
rapid glance on the- two footmen, and thought he remarked 
something sombre which denoted the agents of a secret 
vengeance. From this instant his determination was taken, 
and, in spite of the scent of the dishes, which appeared to 
him an additional proof, he refused ail sustenance, saying 
majestically that he was neither hungry nor thirsty. 

The footmen looked at each other knowingly. They were 
two sharp fellows, and had understood Buvat’s character at a 
glance, and not understanding a man not being hungry when 
before a pheasant stuffed with truffles, or not thirsty before a 
bottle of Chambertin, had penetrated the prisoner’s fears 


3i6 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


pretty quickly. They exchanged a few words in a low tone, 
and the boldest of the two, seeing that there was a means of 
drawing some profit from the circumstances, advanced 
towards Buvat, who recoiled before him as far as the room 
would allow. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, in a reassuring tone, “ we under- 
stand your fears, and, as we are honest servants, we will 
show you that we are incapable of lending ourselves to the 
dealings which you suspect ; consequently, during the whole 
time that you remain here, my comrade and I, each in our 
turn, will taste all the dishes which are brought you, and 
all the wines which are sent in, happy if by our devotion we 
can restore your tranquillity.” 

“Monsieur,” answered Buvat, ashamed that his secret 
sentiments had been discovered thus, “monsieur, you are 
very polite, but in truth I am neither hungry nor thirsty.” 

“ Never mind, monsieur,” said the man, “ as my comrade 
and myself desire not to leave the smallest doubt on your 
mind, we will execute what we have offered. Comtois, my 
friend,” continued the fellow, sitting down in the place which 
had been intended for Buvat, “ do me the favour to help me 
to a little of that soup, a wing of that pullet in rice, a glass of 
that Chambertin, there — to your health, monsieur.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Buvat, opening his eyes, and looking at 
the footman who was dining so impudently in his stCad, 
“ monsieur, it is I who am your servant, and I should wish 
to know your name, in order to preserve it in my memory 
by the side of that of the good gaoler who gave to Comte 
l’Ancien a similar proof of devotion to that which you 
give me.” 

Monsieur,” answered the footman modestly, “ I am called 
Bourguignon, and here is my comrade Comtois, whose turn 
for devotion will come to-morrow, and who, when the moment 
shall have arrived, will not be behindhand. Comtois, my 
friend, a slice of that pheasant, and a glass of champagne. 
Do you not see that, in order to reassure monsieur com- 
pletely, I must taste everything ; it is a severe test, I know, 
but where would be the merit of being an honest man if it 
did not sometimes bring trials like the present ? To your 
health. Monsieur Buvat.” 


THE SAVIOUR OF FRANCE, 


317 


Heaven preserve yours, Monsieur Bourguignon.” 

“ Now, Comtois, hand me the dessert, so that I may leave 
no doubt on Monsieur Buvat’s mind.” 

“ Monsieur Bourguignon, I beg you to believe that, if I 
had any, they are completely dissipated.” 

“ No, monsieur, no, I beg your pardon, you still have some. 
Comtois, my friend, now the hot coffee, very hot ; I wish to 
drink it exactly as monsieur would have done, and I presume 
it is thus that monsieur likes it.” 

Boiling, monsieur, boiling,” answered Buvat, bowing. 

“ Oh !” said Bourguignon, sipping his coffee, and raising 
his eyes blissfully to the ceiling, “ you are right, monsieur. 
It is only so that coffee is good — half-cold it is a very second- 
rate beverage. This, I may say, is excellent. Comtois, my 
friend, receive my compliments, you wait admirably ; now 
help me to take away the table. You ought to know that 
there is nothing more unpleasant than the smell of wines and 
viands to those who are not hungry nor thirsty. Monsieur,” 
continued Bourguignon, stepping towards the door, which he 
had carefully shut during the repast, and which he opened 
while his companion pushed the table before him, “ monsieur, 
if yoL. liave need of anything, you have three bells, one at the 
head of your bed, and two at the mantel-piece. Those 
at the fire-place are for us, that at the bed for your valet-de- 
chambre.” 

“ Thank you, monsieur,” said Buvat, “ you are too good. 
I do not wish to disturb any one.” 

“ Do not trouble yourself about that, monsieur — monseig- 
neur desires that you should make yourself at home.” 

Monseigneur is very polite.” 

“ Does monsieur require anything else ?” 

“Nothing more, my friend, nothing more,” said Buvat, 
touched by so much devotion ; “ nothing, except to express 
my gratitude.” 

“ I have only done my duty, monsieur,” answered Bour- 
guignon, modestly, bowing for the last time, and shutting 
the door. 

“ Ma foi !” said Buvat, following Bourguignon with his 
eyes, “ it must be allowed that some proverbs are great liars. 
One says, ‘ As insolent as a lackey,’ and yet here is an indi- 


3i8 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


vidual practising that calling, who nevertheless could not 
possibly be more polite. I shall never believe in proverbs 
again, or rather, I shall make a difference between them.” 

And making himself this promise, Buvat found himself 
alone. 

Nothing makes a man so hungry as the sight of a good 
dinner ; that which had just been eaten under the good man's 
very eyes surpassed in luxury everything that he had ever 
dreamed of, and he began — influenced by the decided calls 
of his stomach — to reproach himself for his too great defiance 
of his persecutors ; but it was too late. Buvat, it is true, 
might have rung for Monsieur Bourguignon, and requested 
a second dinner, but he was of too timid a character for that, 
and the result was, that he had to search amongst his stock 
of proverbs for the most consoling, and having found, between 
his situation and the proverb, ‘ He who sleeps dines,' an 
analogy which seemed to him most direct, he resolved to 
make use of it, and, as he could not dine, to endeavour at 
least to sleep. 

But, at the moment of taking this resolution, Buvat found 
himself assailed by new fears. Could they not profit by his 
sleep to despatch him ? The night is the tim® of ambushes 
— he had often heard his mother tell of beds which, by the 
lowering of their canopies, smothered the unfortunate sleeper ; 
of beds which sank through a trap, so softly as not to wake 
the occupant ; finally, of secret doors opening in panels, 
and even in furniture, to give entrance to assassins. This 
luxuriant dinner, these rich wines, had they not been sent 
him to ensure a sounder sleep ? All this was possible, nay, 
probable, and Buvat, who felt the instinct of self-preserva- 
tion in the highest degree, took his candle, and commenced 
a most minute investigation. After having opened the doors 
of all the cupboards, sounded all the panelling, Buvat had 
gone down on his hands and feet, and was stretching his 
head timidly under the bed, when he thought he heard 
steps behind him. The position in which he found him- 
self did not permit him to act on the defensive ^ he there- 
fore remained motionless, and waited with a beating heart. 
After a few seconds of solemn silence, which filled Buvat 
with vague alarms, a voice said ; 


THE SA VIOUR OF FRA ACE, 319 

Your pardon ; but is not monsieur looking for his night- 
cap ?” 

Buvat was discovered — tliere was no means of escaping the 
danger, if danger there was. He therefore drew his head 
îrom under the bed, took his candle, and remaining on 
his knees, as a humble and beseeching posture, he turned 
towards the individual who had just addressed him, and 
found himself face to face with a man dressed in black, and 
carrying, folded up on his arm, many articles, which Buvat 
recognised as human clothes. 

“Yes, monsieur,” said Buvat, seizing the opening which 
was offered to him, with a presence of mind on which he 
secretly congratulated himself ; “ is that search forbidden ?” 

“ Why did not monsieur, instead of troubling himself, ring 
the bell ? I have the honour to be appointed monsieur’s 
valet- de-chambre, and I have brought him a night-cap and 
night-shirt.” 

And with these words the valet-de-chambre spread out on 
the bed a night-shirt, embroidered with flowers, a cap of the 
finest lawn, and a rose-coloured ribbon. Buvat, still on his 
knees, regarded him with the greatest astonishment. 

“ Now,” said the valet-de-chambre, “ will monsieur allo\^ 
me to help him to undress ?” 

“No, monsieur, no,” said Buvat, accompanying the refusal 
with the sweetest smile he could assume. “No, lam accus»* 
tomed to undress myself. I thank you, monsieur.” 

The valet-de-chambre retired, and Buvat remained alone. 

As the inspection of the room was completed, and as his 
increasing hunger rendered sleep more necessary, Buvat be- 
gan to undress, sighing ; placed — in order not to be left in 
the dark — a candle on the corner of the chimney-piece, and 
sprang, with a groan, into the softest and warmest bed he had 
ever slept on. 

“ The bed is not sleep,” is an axiom which Buvat iiiigin, 
from experience, have added to the list of his true proverbs. 
Either from fear or hunger, Buvat passed a very disturbed 
night, and it was not till near morning that he fell asleep ; 
even then his slumbers were peopled with the most terrible 
visions and nightmares. He was just waking from a dream 
that he had been poisoned by a leg of mutton, when the valet- 


320 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


de-chambre entered, and asked what time he w'ould like 
breakfast. 

Buvat was not in the habit of breakfasting in bed, so he 
rose quickly, and dressed in haste ; he had just finished, 
when Messieurs Bourguignon and Comtois entered, bringing 
the breakfast, as the aay before they had brought the dinner. 

Then took place a second rehearsal of the scene which we 
have before related, with the exception that now it was Mon- 
sieur Comtois who ate and Monsieur Bourguignon who 
waited ; but when it came to the coffee, and Buvat, who had 
taken nothing for twenty-four hours, saw his dearly-loved 
beverage, after having passed from the silver coffee-pot into 
the porcelain cup, pass into the cavernous mouth of Monsieur 
Comtois, he could hold out no longer, and declared that his 
stomacn demanded to be amused with something, and that, 
consequently, he desired that they would leave him the coffee 
and a roll. This declaration appeared to disturb the devotion 
of Monsieur Comtois, who was nevertheless obliged to satisfy 
himself with one cup of the odoriferous liquid, which, to- 
gether with a roll and the sugar, was placed on a little table, 
while the two scamps carried off the rest of the feast, laugh- 
ing in their sleeves. 

Scarcely was the door closed, when Buvat darted towards 
the little table, and, without even waiting to dip one into the 
other, ate the bread and drank the coffee ; then, a little com- 
forted by that repast, insufficient as it was, began to look at 
things in a less gloomy point of view. 

In truth, Buvat was not wanting in a certain kind of good 
sense, and, as he had passed the preceding evening and night, 
and entered on the present morning, without interference, he 
began to understand that, though from some political motive 
they had deprived him of his liberty, they were far from 
wishing to shorten his days, and surrounded him, on the con- 
‘trary, with cares, of which he had never before been the 
^ object. He had seen that the dinner of the day before was 
better than his ordinary dinner — that the bed was softer than 
his ordinary bed — that the coffee he had just drunk possessed 
an aroma which the mixture of chicory took away from his, 
aiid he could not conceal from himself that the elastic 
couches and stuffed chairs which he had sat upon for the last 


THE SAVIOUR OF FRA ATE, 


321 


twenty-four hours were much preferable to the hair sofa and 
cane chairs of his own establishment. The only thin}?, tlien, 
which remained to trouble him, was the uneasiness which 
Bathilde would feel at his not returning. He had for an 
instant the idea — not' daring to renew the request which he 
had made the day before, to have news of him sent to his 
ward — of imitating the man with the iron mask, who had 
thrown a silver plate from the window of his prison on to the 
shore, by throwing a letter from his balcony into the court, 
yard of the Palais Royal ; but he knew what a fatal result 
this infraction of the will of Monsieur de Saint- Mars had had 
for the unfortunate prisoner, so that he feared, by such an 
action, to increase the rigours of his captivity, which at 
present seemed to him tolerable. 

The result of all these reflections was, that Buvat passed 
the morning in a much less agitated manner than he had the 
evening and the night ; moreover, his hunger — appeased by 
the roll and the coffee — only existed in the form of that appe- 
tite which is an enjoyment when one is sure of a good 
dinner. Add to all this the particularly cheerful look-out 
which the prisoner had from his window, and it will be easily 
understood that mid-day arrived without too many sorrows, 
or too much ennui. 

Exactly at one o’clock the door opened, and the table 
reappeared ready laid, and brought, like the day before 
and that morning, by the two valets. But this time, it was 
neither Monsieur Bourguignon nor Monsieur Comtois who 
sat down to it. Buvat declared himself perfectly reassured 
concerning the intentions of his august host ; he thanked 
Messieurs Comtois and Bourguignon for the devotion cf 
which each in turn aad given him a proof, and begged them 
to wait upon him in their turn. The two servants made wry 
faces, but obeyed. It will be understood that the happv 
disposition in which Buvat now was became more blis&ful 
under the influence of a good dinner. Buvat ate all the eat- 
ables, drank all the drinkables, and at last, after having 
sipped his coffee — a luxury which he usually only allowed 
himself on Sundays — and having cipped the Arabian nectar 
with a glass of Madame Anfoux’ liquor, was, it must be con- 
fessed, in a state bordering upon ecstasy. 


21 


THE CONSPIRATORS 


32a 

That evening the supper was equally successful ; but as 
Buvat had abandoned himself at dinner rather freely to the 
consumption of Chambertin and Sillery, about eight o’clock 
in the evening he found himself in a state of glorification 
impossible to describe. The consequence was, that when 
the valet-de-chambre entered, instead of finding him like the 
evening before, with his head under the bed, he found Buvat 
seated on a comfortable sofa, his feet on the hobs, his head 
leaning back, his eyes winking, and singing between his teeth, 
with an expression of infinite tenderness ; 

Then let me go, 

And let me play, 

Beneath the hazel-tree.” 

Which, as may be seen, was a great improvement on the 
state of the worthy writer twenty-four hours before. More- 
over, when the valet-de-chambre offered to help him to un- 
dress, Buvat, who found a slight difficulty in expressing his 
thoughts, contented himself with smiling in sign of approba- 
tion ; then extended his arms to have his coat taken off, then 
his legs to have his slippers removed ; but, in spite of his 
state of exaltation, it is only just to Buvat to say, that it was 
only when he found himself alone that he laid aside the rest 
of his garments. 

This time, contrary to what he had done the day before, 
he stretched himself out luxuriously in his bed, and fell asleep 
in five minutes, and dreamed that he was the Grand Turk. 

He awoke as fresh as a rose, having only one trouble — the 
uneasiness that Bathilde must experience, but otherwise per 
fectly happy. 

It may easily be imagined that the breakfast did not lessen 
his good spirits ; on the contrary, being informed that he 
might write to Monsieur the Archbishop of Cambray, he 
asked for paper and ink, which were brought him, took from ! 
his pocket his pen-knife, which never left him, cut his pen 
with the greatest care, and commenced, in his finest writing, 
a most touching request, that if his captivity was to last, 
Bathilde might be sent for, or, at least, that she might be 
informed, that, except his liberty, he was in want of nothing, 
thanks to the kindness of the prime minister. 


TnE SAVIOUR OF FRANC 


323 


This request, to the caligraphy of which Buvat had de- 
voted no little care, and whose capital letters represented 
different plants, trees, or animals, occupied the worthy writer 
from breakfast till dinner. On sitting down to table he gave 
the note to Bourguignon, who charged himself with carrying 
it to the prime minister, saying that Comtois would wait 
during his absence. In a quarter of an hour Bourguignon 
returned, and informed Buvat that monseigneur had gone 
out, but that — in his absence — the petition had been given 
to the person who aided him in his public affairs, and that 
person had requested that Monsieur Buvat would come and 
see him as soon as he had finished his dinner, but hoped 
that monsieur would not in any degree hurry himself, since 
he who made the request was dining himself. In accordance 
with this permission Buvat took his time, feasted on the best 
cookery, imbibed the most generous wines, sipped his coffee, 
played with his glass of liquor, and then — the last operation 
completed — declared in a resolute tone, that he was ready to 
appear before the. substitute of the prime minister. 

The sentinel had received orders to let him pass, so Buvat, 
conducted by Bourguignon, passed proudly by him. For 
some time they followed a long corridor, then descended a 
staircase ; at last the footman opened a door, and announced 
Monsieur Buvat. 

Buvat found himself in a sort of laboratory, situated on the 
ground floor, with a man of from forty to forty-two, who was 
entirely unknown to him, and who was very simply dressed, 
and occupied in following — at a blazing furnace — some 
chemical experiment, to which he appeared to attach great 
importance. This man, seeing Buvat, raised his head, and 
having looked at him curiously, — 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “are you Jean Buvat?” 

“ At your service, monsieur,” answered Buvat, bowing. 

“ The request which you have just sent to the abbé is your 
handwriting ?” 

“ My own, monsieur.” 

“You write a fine hand.” 

Buvat bowed with a proudly modest smile. 

“ The abbé,” continued the unknown, “ has informed me 
pf the services which you have rendered us.” 

21 — 3 


324 


THE CONSFIRATORS. 


“ Monseigneur is too good,” murmured Buvat, “ it was not 
worth the trouble.’* 

How ! not worth the trouble ? Indeed, Monsieur Buvat, 
it was, on the contrary, well worth the trouble, and the proof 
is, that if you have any favour to ask from the regent, I will 
charge myself with the message.” 

Monsieur,” said Buvat, “ since you are so good as to 
offer to interpret my sentiments to his royal highness, have 
the kindness to request him, when he is less pressed, if it is 
not too inconvenient, to pay me my arrears.” 

“ How 1 your arrears. Monsieur Buvat ? What do you 
mean ?” 

“ I mean, monsieur, that I have the honour to be em- 
ployed at the royal library, but that for six years I have 
received no salary.” 

“ And how much do your arrears amount to ?” 

‘‘ Monsieur, I must have a pen and ink to calculate 
exactly.” 

“Oh, but something near the mark — calculate from 
memory.” 

“ To five thousand three hundred and odd francs, besides 
the fractions of sous and deniers.” 

“ And you wish for payment, Monsieur Buvat ?” 

“ I do not deny it, monsieur ; it would give me great 
pleasure.” 

“ And is this all you ask ?” 

“All.” 

“ But do you not ask anything for the service which you 
have just rendered France ?” 

“Indeed, monsieur, I should like permission to let my 
ward Bathilde know that she may be easy on my account, 
and that I am a prisoner at the Palais Royal. I would also 
ask — if it would not be imposing upon your kindness too 
much — that she might be allowed to pay me a little visit, 
but, if this second request is indiscreet, I will confine myself 
to the first.” 

“ We will do better than that ; the causes for which you 
were retained exist no more, and we are going to set you at 
liberty; so you can go yourself to carry the news to Bathilde.” 

“ What, monsieur, what !” cried Buvat ; “ am I, then, no 
longer a prisoner ?” 


TUE SA VI OUR OF FRA ACE, 


325 


•‘You can go when you like.” 

“ Monsieur, I am your very humble servant, and I have 
the honour of presenting you my respects.” 

Pardon, Monsieur Buvat, one word more.” 

“ Two, monsieur.” 

‘‘ I repeat to you that France is under obligations to yOu, 
which she will acquit. Write, then, to the regent, inform him 
of what is due to you, show him your situation, and if you 
have a particular desire for anything, say so boldly. I 
guarantee that he will grant your request.” 

“Monsieur, you are too good, and I shall not fail. I 
hope, then, that out of the first money which comes into the 
treasury ” 

“You will be paid. I give you my word.” 

“ Monsieur, this very day my petition shall be addressed 
to the regent.” 

“ And to-morrow you will be paid.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, what goodness !” 

“ Go, Monsieur Buvat, go ; your ward expects you.” 

“ You are right, monsieur, but she will lose nothing by 
having waited for me, since I bring her such good news. I 
may have the honour of seeing you again, monsieur. Ah I 
pardon, would it be an indiscretion to ask your name ?” 

“ Monsieur Philippe.” 

“ Au revoir ! Monsieur Philippe !” 

“ Adieu ! Monsieur Buvat. One instant — I must give 
orders that they are to allow you to pass.” 

At these words he rang : an usher appeared 

“ Send Ravanne.” 

The usher went out ; a few seconds afterwards a young 
officer of guards entered. 

“ Ravanne,” said Monsieur Philippe,, “ conduct this gentle- 
man to the gate of the Palais Royal There he is free to go 
where he wishes.” 

“ Yes, monseigneur,” answered the young officer. 

A cloud passed over Buvat’s eyes, and he opened his mouth 
to ask who it was that was being called monseigneur, but 
Ravanne did not leave him time. 

“ Come, monsieur,” said he, “ I await you.” 

Buvat looked at Monsieur Philippe and the page with a 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


stupefied air ; but the latter — not understanding his hésita- 
tion — ^renewed his invitation to follow. Buvat obeyed, draw- 
ing out his handkerchief, and wiping his forehead. 

At the door, the sentinel wished to stop Buvat. 

“By the order of his royal highness Monseigneur the 
Regent, monsieur is free,” said Ra vanne. 

The soldier presented arms, and allowed him to pass. 

Buvat thought he should faint, he felt his legs fail him, and 
leaned against a wall. 

“ What is the matter, monsieur ?” asked his guide. 

“ Pardon, monsieur,” murmured Buvat, “ but who is the 
person to whom I have just had the honour of speaking ?” 

“ Monseigneur the Regent in person.” 

“ Not possible !” 

“Not only possible, but true.^ 

“What ! it was the regent himself who promised to pay 
me my arrears ?” 

“ I do not know what he promised you, but I know that 
the person who gave me the order to accompany you was the 
regent.” 

“ But he told me he was called Philippe.” 

“Well, he is — Philippe d’Orleans.” 

“That is true, monsieur, that is true, Philippe is his 
Christian name. The regent is a brave man, and when I 
remember that there exist scoundrels who conspire against 
him — against a man who has promised to pay me my arrears 
— but they deserve to be hanged, all of them, to be broken 
on the wheel, drawn and quartered, burnt alive ; do not you 
think so, monsieur?” 

“ Monsieur,” said Ravanne, laughing, “ I have no opinion 
on matters of such importance. We are at the gate; I should 
be happy to accompany you further, but monseigneur leaves 
in half an hour for the Abbey of Chelles, and, as he has some 
orders to give me before his departure, I am — to my great 
regret — obliged to quit you.” 

“All the regret is on my side, monsieur,” said Buvat, 
graciously, and answering by a profound bow to the slight 
nod of the young man, who, when Buvat raised his head, had 
already disappeared. This departure left Buvat perfectly 
free in his movements, and he profited thereby to take his 


THE SA y/0 HE OF FRANCE, 327 

way down the Place des Victoires towards the Rue du Temps- 
Perdu, round the corner of which he turned at the very 
moment when D’Harmental ran his sw'ord through the body 
of Roquefinette. It was at this moment that poor Bathilde 
— who was far from suspecting what was passing in her neigh- 
bour’s room — had seen her guardian, and had rushed to meet 
him on the stairs, where Buvat and she had met at the third 
flight. 

“ Oh my deaiv dear father,” cried Bathilde, remounting 
the staircase in Buvat’s arms, and stopping to embrace him 
at every step, “where have you been ? What has happened? 
How is it that we have not seen you since Monday ? What 
uneasiness you have caused us, mon Dieu 1 But something 
extraordinary must have occurred.” 

“ Yes, most extraordinary,” answered Buvat. 

“ Ah, mon Dieu ! tell then me, first, where do you come 
from ?” 

“ From the Palais Royal.” 

“ What ! from the Palais Royal ; and with whom were 
you stopping at the Palais Royal ?” 

“ The regent.” 

“ You with the regent ! and what about ?” 

“ I w^as a prisoner.” 

“ A prisoner — you !” 

“ A State prisoner.” 

“ And why were you a prisoner ?” 

“Because I have saved France.” 

“ Oh, father ! are you mad ?” cried Bathilde, terrified. 

“ No, but there has been enough to make me so if I had 
not had a pretty strong head.” 

“ Oh, explain, for God’s sake !” 

“ Fancy that there was a conspiracy against the regent.” 

“ Oh, mon Dieu !” 

“ And that I belonged to it.” 

“You?” ^ 

“ Yes, I, without being— that is to say, you know that 
Prince de Listhnay ?” 

“ Well !” 

“A sham prince, my child, a sham prince I” 

But the copies which you made for him ?” 


32S 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


Manifestoes, proclamations, incendiary papers, a general 

revolt, Brittany Normandy the States-General 

King of Spain 1 have discovered all this.” 

“ You ?” cried Bathilde, horrified. 

“Yes, I; and the regent has called me the saviour of 
France — me j and is going to pay me my arrears.” 

“ My father, my father, you talk of conspirators, do you 
remember the name of any of them ?” 

“ Firstly, Monsieur the Due de Maine ; fancy that miser- 
able bastard conspiring against a man like Monseigneur the 
regent. Then a Count de Laval, a Marquis de Pompadour, 
a Baron de Valef, the Prince de Cellamare, the Abbé Brigaud, 
that abominable Abbé Brigaud ! Think of my having copied 
the list” 

“ My father, said Bathilde, shuddering with fear, “ my 
father, amongst all those names, did you not see the name 

the name of Chevalier Raoul d’Har- 

mental ?” 

“ That 1 did,” cried Buvat, “ the Chevalier Raoul d’Har- 
mental — why he is the head of the company ; but the regent 
knows them all — this very evening they will all be arrested, 
and to-morrow hung, drawn, quartered, broken on the 
wheel.” 

“ Oh, luckless, shameful, that you are !” cried Bathilde, 
wringing her hands wildly ; “ you have killed the man whom 
I love — but, I swear to you, by the memory of my mother, 
that if he dies I will die also !” 

And thinking that she might still be in time to warn 
D’Harmental of the danger which threatened him, Bathilde 
left Buvat confounded, darted to the door, flew down the 
staircase, cleared the street at two bounds, rushed up the 
stairs, and, breathless, terrified, dying, hurled herself against 
the door of D’Harmental’s room, which, badly closed by the 
chevalier, yielded before her, exposing to her view the body 
of the captain stretched on the floor, and swimming in a sea 
of blood. 

At this sight, so widely different from what she expected, 
Bathilde, not thinking that she might perhaps be compromis- 
ing her lover, sprang towards the door, calling for help, but 
on reaching the threshold, either from weakness, or from the 


THE SA VIOUR OF FRA ACE. 329 

blood, her foot slipped, and she fell backwards with a 
terrible cry. 

The neighbours came running in the direction of the cry, 
and found that Bathilde had fainted, and that her head, in 
falling against the angle of the door, had been bad.y 
wounded. 

They carried Bathilde to Madame Denis’s room, and the 
good woman hastened to offer her hospitality. 

As to Captain Roquefinette, as he had torn off the address 
of the letter which he had in his pocket to light his pipe with, 
and had no other paper to indicate his name or residence, 
they carried his body to the Morgue, where, three days after- 
wards, it was recognised by La Normande. 


53 ® 


THE CONSPIRATORS^ 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

GOD DISPOSES. 

D’Harmental, as we have seen, had set off at a gallop, feel- 
ing that he had not an instant to lose in bringing about the 
changes which the death of Captain Roquefinette rendered 
necessary in his hazardous enterprise. In the hope of recog- 
nising by some sign the individuals who were destined to 
play the part of supernumeraries in this great drama, he 
followed the Boulevards as far as the Porte Saint Martin, 
and, having arrived there, turned to the left, and was in the 
midst of the horse market: it was there, it will be remem- 
bered, that the twelve or fifteen sham peasants enlisted by 
Roquefinette waited the orders of their captain. 

But, as the deceased had said, no sign pointed out to the 
eye of the stranger who were the men, clothed like the rest, 
and scarcely known to each other. D’Harmental, therefore, 
sought vainly ; all the faces were unknown to him ; buyers 
and sellers appeared equally indifferent to everything except 
the bargains which they were concluding. Twice or thrice, 
after having approached persons whom he fancied he recog- 
nised as false bargainers, he went away without even speaking 
to them, so great was the probability, that, among the five 
or six hundred individuals who were on the ground, the 
chevalier would make some mistake which might be not only 
useless, but even dangerous 

The situation was pitiable ; D’Harmental unquestionably 
had there, ready to his hand, all the means necessary to the 
happy completion of his plot, but he had, in killing the cap- 
tain, broken with his own hand the thread which should have 
served him as a clue to them, and, the centre link broken, 
the whole chain had become useless. 

D’Harmental bit his lips till the blood came, and wandered 
to and fro, from end to end of the market, still hoping that 


COD DISPOSES, 


331 


some unforeseen event would get him out of his difficulty. 
Time, however, flowed away, the market presented the same 
aspect, no one spoke to him, and tvfo peasants to whom 
despair had caused him to address some ambiguous words, 
had opened their eyes and mouths in such profound astonish- 
ment that he had instantly broken off the conversation, con- 
vinced that he was mistaken. 

Five o'clock struck. 

At eight or nine the regent would repair to Chelles, there 
was therefore no time to be lost, particularly as this ambus- 
cade was the last resource for the conspirators, who might 
be arrested at any moment, and who staked their remaining 
hopes on this last throw. D’Harmental did not conceal from 
himself the difficulties of the situation ; he had claimed for 
himself the honour of the enterprise ; on him therefore rested 
all the responsibility — and that responsibility was terrible. 
On the other hand, he found himself in one of those situa- 
tions where courage is useless, and where human will shatters 
itself against an impossibility, and where the last chance is to 
confess one’s weakness, and ask aid from those who expect 
it of us. But D’Harmental was a man of determination ; 
his resolution was soon taken — he took a last turn round the 
market to see if some conspirator would not betray himself 
by his impatience ; but, seeing that all faces retained therr 
expression of unconcern, he put his horse to the gallop, rode 
down the Boulevards, gained the Faubourg Saint Antoine, 
dismounted at No. 15, went up the staircase, opened the 
door of a little room, and found himself in the company of 
Madame de Maine, Laval, Valef, Pompadour, Malezieux, 
and Brigaud. 

A general cry arose on seeing him. 

D’Harmental related everything : the pretensions of Roque- 
flnette, the discussion which had followed, the duel which 
had terminated that discussion. He opened his cloak and 
showed his shirt saturated with blood ; then he passed to the 
hopes which he had entertained of recognising the sham 
peasants, and putting himself at their head in place of the 
captain. He showed his hopes destroyed, his investigations 
useless, and wound up by an appeal to Laval, Pompadour, 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


332 

and Valef, who answered that they were ready to follow the 
chevalier to the end of the earth, and to obey his orders. 

Nothing was lost, then — four resolute men, acting on their 
own account, were well worth twelve or fifteen hired vaga- 
bonds, who were not influenced by any motive beyond that 
of gaining some hundred louis a piece. The horses were 
ready in the stable, every one had come armed ; D’Avranches 
was not yet gone, which reinforced the little troop by another 
devoted man. They sent for masks of black velvet, so as to 
hide from the regent as long as possible who his enemies 
were, left with Madame de Maine Malezieux, who from his 
age, and Brigand, who from his profession, were naturally 
excluded from such an expedition, fixed a rendezvous at 
Saint Mandé, and left, each one separately, so as not to 
arouse suspicions. An hour afterw^ards the five friends were 
reunited, and ambushed on the road to Chelles, betw^een 
Vincennes and Nogent-sur-Marne. 

Half-past six struck on the château clock. 

D’Avranches had been in search of information. The 
regent had passed at about half-past three ; he had neither 
guards nor suite, he was in a carriage and four, ridden by two 
jockeys, and preceded by a single out-rider. There was no 
resistance to be feared ; on arresting the prince they would 
turn his course towards Charenton, where the postmaster 
was, as we have said, in the interest of Madame de Maine, 
take him into the courtyard, whose door would close upon 
him, force him to enter a travelling carriage, which would be 
waiting with the postillion in his saddle ; D’Harmental and 
Valef would seat themselves by him, they would cross the 
Marne at Alfort, the Seine at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, reach 
Grand-Vaux, then Monthéry, and find themselves on the 
road to Spain. If at any of the villages where they changed 
horses the regent endeavoured to call out, D’Harmental and 
Valef would threaten him, and, if he called out in spite of 
the menaces, they had that famous passport to prove that he 
who claimed assistance was not the prince, but only a mad- 
man who thought himself the regent, and whom they were 
conducting to his family, who lived at Saragossa. All this 
was a little dangerous, it is true, but, as is well known, 




D’Avkanxhes, 









» . 

% 


1 


' t 








• « 







;W;? 



I • 


/' 


. F 


< .• 

\ 



*^r J*- • - - • ••* ^ 






4 *, 


-V ' . . *' 




.-i»^ ^ 

r J. . . • ^ • 

. , W-' 

». .- - . /^ 


P 

!f' 


« ^ - 


. é 

* l. ^ 

^ » 






.•> 


-, «• 
r. • y-'- . 





'' -vl: J 

V •?% 4,r 


. ^ * 


• k 


’• 


s . 


•^V .. •• 


. « - •< . r » ».v .. 

*rV v-V' 

ÇÎ^^?^-‘"^' 'îTî ; V*- 


% « 


’: •v 




■tV-T 


. V ^ 

•?• -' '«v* 








- J. . 

•' *» v,"*'» ^ 






-/ 


* 

». » 


. * « 


• . ," # ' ‘ . ■ ■ tC^/' • ■ . ^ . • * ’■’••,■ •_ •* ^‘m . w; 

• • *., ».'. « • r»' ,* »i ''§'*1 

: -A-^’ Vt..;.'î'--H'A ’■ ‘-'• 

.r .^y.- * ' . » V ^.v *- . • . • 

■y ‘ ^ ^ 

■• U’ • ,v*. **\ 

. • . * • * ■* ' - »*v • •- ^ .' ^ •* ♦ ■ - ^ . • • » 

J_fc.- * . ^ ~-^ * - c* w k, — 


a' • 


»\w. . W”» *> 

'.'1'**. . \ 




- * * ^•* ^ 


• . I 

•U 


V y.* 


•^7. 

.•> 


, ^ ^ v^r . 

♦ • * - I A • . 


l 


r '• ^ f . ; ... ;:-J , '. 

•* • •»••» ». ^ .«•?*' . ' *^ - -'• • 
r •• .••»»' ^ ••j . ■••'*. 

•■■ ’- ^ .. .. -.•*■-•- - 


J 


• • >■ 


•. •» 


* *-* d* •* ' * • ^ 

. .• *vsa •. r-ïr* ...'■ ' . ti' 

.' ■ ':' :' "A ••; "i ■''^'- 


: 


« » 


- •• V J:‘ . 

• ►. r ^ 

« 


• • : 


~ - I - 


• 


•Al 




.r-.'P: ■ . . : . ■ ; ^ - - , 

V.'-.i.i; ' ;.i v; '' ‘...-l . -■ », i ■ ^ •'•yf> 

• •’ #*■-».*’ ' "w --•- .. ?».►• > * ' • • ■ V ' . .** • • . ■■, 

■- -'rrî? ,, V • ‘ 

r , .’ V' ,r *■ » » ; •-. ',- 

• -•' \ . l-k. .* ■» :'. ’’ . -- . 




Ÿ . I ■ 


Jfr 


f. » • 


I * a 
» V. 1. . 




l.Àî' •ï«?3 

- A _ 


7 




* - * .*, .^ • 

. • ;. \ • * ■* 

"v'V * .- 

-i. - - ‘ ^ V 

'*''•» » -É- » V «• , 


. N 


. > . 




a« . 



.V -t. 






, » 




- k 


♦ » 


(C 


',- v. 




'J 


r '- - . » ■* - . - • ”. ''f' > . 

..Al;:-- . ,'& - 

« • k, *w ^ -/ 

* . .' '• l ^ 

,» ■. A-v ' . * • JP 

Î!» 37 , ••' : 

> •* «L - . » «aA ,. a* » . - . ^ ..</y 


T»:' 


• . 




4 *' 


»• ' % 


« '4 

' . i.» 




-V '/ 


» »* 





« ( 
.;r'. 






' 1 


II 4 • m. 


• •/ 

1. ^ ’.V' - ■•» 




J 


CGD DISPOSES. 


333 


these are the very enterprises which succeed, so much the 
easier from their unforeseen audacity. 

Seven o’clock, eight o’clock, struck successively. D’Har- 
mental and his companions saw with pleasure the night ap- 
proaching, and the darkness falling more and more dense 
and black around them ; two or three carriages had already 
given false alarms, but had had no other effect than prepar- 
ing them for the real attack. At half-past eight the night 
was piich-dark, and a sort of natural fear, which the con- 
spirators had felt at first, began to change into impatience. 

At nine o’clock they thought they could distinguish sounds. 
D’Avranches lay down, with his ear to the ground, and dis- 
tinctly heard the rolling of a carriage. At that instant they 
saw, at about a thousand paces from the angle of the road, a 
point of light like a star ; the conspirators trembled with ex- 
citement, it was evidently the outrider with his torch. There 
was soon no doubt — they saw the carriage with its two lan- 
terns. D’Harmental, Pompadour, Valef, and Laval, grasped 
one another’s hands, put on their masks, and each one took 
the place assigned to him. The carriage advanced rapidly 
— it was really that of the duke. By the light of the torch 
which he carried, they could distinguish the red dress of the 
outrider, some five-and-twenty paces before the horses. The 
road was silent and deserted, everything was favourable. 
D’Harmental threw a last glance on his companions. D’Av- 
ranches was in the middle of the road pretending to be 
drunk, Laval and Pompadour on each side of the path, and 
opposite him Valef, who was cocking his pistols. As to the 
outrider, the two jockeys and the prince, it was evident that 
they were all in a state of perfect security, and would fall 
quietly into the trap. The carriage still advanced ; already 
the outrider had passed D’Harmental and Valef, suddenly he 
struck against D’Avranches, who sprang up, seized the bridle, 
snatched the torch from his hand, and extinguished it. At 
this sight the jockeys tried to turn the carriage, but^ it was 
too late ; Pompadour and Laval sprang upon them pistol in 
hand, whilst D’Harmental and Valef presented themselves 
at the two doors, extinguished the lanterns, and intimated to 
che prince that if he did not make any resistance his life 
would be spared, but that if, on the contrary, he defended 


334 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


himself, or cried out, they were determined to proceed to 
extremities. 

Contrary to the expectation of D’Harmental and Valef, 
who knew the courage of the regent, the prince only said : 

“ Well, gentlemen, do not harm me. I will go wherever 
you wish.” 

D’Harmental and Valef threw a glance at the road ; they 
saw Pompadour and D’Avranches leading into the depth of 
the wood the outrider, the two jockeys, the outrider’s horse, 
and two of the carriage horses which they had unharnessed. 
The chevalier sprang from his horse, mounted that of the 
first postillion ; Laval and Valef placed themselves before the 
doors, the carriage set off at a gallop, and taking the first turn 
to the left, began to roll, without noise and without light, in 
the direction of Charenton. All the arrangements had been 
so perfect, that the seizure had not occupied more than five 
minutes; no resistance had been made, not a cry had been 
uttered. Most assuredly, this time fortune was on the side 
of the conspirators. 

But having arrived at the end of the cross road, D’Har- 
mental encountered a first obstacle ; the barrier — either by 
accident or design — was closed, and they were obliged to 
retrace their steps and take another road. The chevalier turned 
his horses, took a lateral alley, and the journey, interrupted 
for an instant, recommenced at an increased speed. 

The new route which the chevalier had taken led him to a 
four-cross road ; one of the roads led straight to Charenton. 
There was no time to lose, and in any event he must traverse 
this square. For an instant he thought he distinguished rr^en 
in the darkness before him, but this vision disappeared like a 
mist, and the carriage continued its progress without inter- 
ruption. On approaching the cross roads D’Harmental 
fancied he heard the neighing of a horse, and a sort of ringing 
of iron, like sabres being drawn from their sheaths, but either 
taking it for the wind among the leaves, or for some other 
noise for which he need not stop, he continued with the same 
swiftness, the same silence, and in the midst of the same 
darkness. But, having arrived at the cross roads, D’Har- 
mental noticed a singular circumstance, a sort of wall seemed 
to close all the roads ; something was happening. D’Har* 


COD DISPOSES. 


33S 


mental stopped the carriage, and wished to return by the road 
he had come down, but a similar wall had closed behind 
him. At that instant he heard the voices of Laval and Vaief 
crying : 

“ We are surrounded, save yourself 1” 

And both left the doors, leaped their horses over the ditch, 
darted into the forest, and disappeared amongst the trees. 

But it was impossible for D’Harmental, who was mounted 
on the postillion’s horse, to follow his companions, and, not 
being able to escape the living wall, which the chevalier 
recognised as a regiment of musketeers, he tried to break 
through it, and with his head lowered, and a pistol in each 
hand, spurred his horse up the nearest road, without con- 
sidering whether it was the right one. He had scarcely gone 
ten steps, however, when a musket-ball entered the head of 
his horse, wLich fell, entangling D’Harmental’s leg. Instantly 
eight or ten cavaliers sprang upon him ; he fired one pistol 
by hazard, and put the other to his head, to blow his brains 
out, but he had not time, for two musketeers seized him by 
the arms, and four others dragged him from beneath the 
horse. The pretended prince descended from the carriage, 
and turned out to be a valet in disguise ; they placed D’Har- 
mental with two officers inside the carriage, and harnessed 
another horse in the place of the one which had been shot. 
The carriage once more moved forward, taking a new direc- 
tion, and escorted by a squadron of musketeers. A quarter 
of an hour afterwards it rolled over a draw-bridge, a heavy 
door grated upon its hinges, and D’Harmental passed under 
a sombre and vaulted gateway, on the inner side of which, 
an officer in the uniform of a colonel was waiting for him. 
It was Monsieur de Launay, the governor of the Bastille. 

If our readers desire to know how the plot had been dis- 
covered, they must recall the conversation between Dubois 
and La Fillon. The gossip of the prime minister, it will be 
remembered, suspected Roquefinette of being mixed up in 
some illicit proceeding, and had denounced him on condition 
of his life being spared. A few days afterwards D’Harmental 
came to her house, and she recognised him as the young man 
wffio had held the former conference with Roquefinette. She 
bad conseauently mounted the stairs behind him, and, going 


335 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


into the next room, had, by aid of a hole bored in the parti* 
tion, heard everything. 

What she had heard was the project for carrying off the 
regent on his return from Chelles. Dubois had been in- 
formed the same evening, and, in order to take the conspirators 
in the act, had put a suit of the regent’s clothes on Monsieur 
Bourguignon, and, having surrounded the Bois de Vincennes 
with a regiment of Gray Musketeers, besides light-horse and 
dragoons, had produced the result we have just related. 
The head of the plot had been taken in the fact, and as the 
prime minister knew the names of all the conspirators, there 
was little chance remaining for them of escape from the 
meshes of the vast net which was hourly closing around 
them. 


A PRIME MINISTERES MEMORY. 


337 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A PRIME minister's MEMORY. 

When Bathilde reopened her eyes, she found herself in Made- 
moiselle Emilie’s room. Mirza was lying on the end of the 
bed ; the two sisters were one at each side of her pillow, and 
Buvat, overcome by grief, was sitting in a corner, his head 
bent, and his hands resting on his knees. 

At first all her thoughts were confused, and her sensation 
was one of bodily pain ; she raised her hand to her head ; the 
wound^ was behind the temple. A doctor, who had been 
called in, had arranged the first dressing, and left orders that 
he was to be sent for if fever declared itself. 

Astonished to find herself — on waking from a sleep which 
had appeared to her heavy and painful — in bed in a strange 
room, the young girl turned an inquiring glance on each per- 
son present, but Emilie and Athenais shunned her eyes, and 
Buvat heaved a mournful sigh. Mirza alone stretched out 
her little head for a caress. Unluckily for the coaxing little 
creature, BathiMe began to recover her memory ; the veil 
which was drawn before the late events rose little by little, 
and soon she began to connect the broken threads which 
might guide her in the past. She recalled the return of Buvat, 
what he had told her of the conspiracy, the danger which 
would result to D’Harmental from the revelation he had 
made. Then she remembered her hope of being in time to 
save him, the rapidity with which she had crossed the street 
and mounted the staircase; lastly, her entry into Raoul’s 
room returned to her memory, and once more she found her- 
self before the corpse of Roquefinette. 

“ And he,” she cried, ‘‘ what has become of him ?” 

No one answered, for neither of the three persons who 
were in the room knew what reply to give ; only Buvat, 
choking with tears, rose, and went towards the door. Bathilde 

22 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


338 

understood the grief and remorse expressed in that mute 
withdrawal ; she stopped him by a look, and extending her 
arms towards him, — 

“ My father,” said she, “ do you no longer love your poor 
Bathilde?** 

“ I no longer love you, my darling child !” cried Buvat, 
falling on his knees, and kissing her hand, “ I love you no 
longer ! My God ! it will be you who will not love me now, 
and you will be right, for I am worthless ; I ought to have 
known that that young man loved you, and ought to have 

risked all, suffered all, rather than But you told me 

nothing, you had no confidence in me, and I — with the best 
intentions in the world — made nothing but mistakes; oh, 
unlucky, unhappy, that I am, you will never forgive me, and 
then — how shall I live ?” 

“ Father,” cried Bathilde, “ for heaven’s sake try and find 
out what has happened.” 

“ Well, my child, well, I will discover ; will not you for* 
give me if I bring you good news? If the news is bad, you 
will hate me even more ; that will but be just, but you will 
not die, Bathilde ?” 

“Go, go,” said Bathilde, throwing her arms round his 
neck, and giving him a kiss in which fifteen years of gratitude 
struggled with one day of pain ; “ go, my existence is in the 
hands of God, He only can decide whether I shall live or 
die.” 

Buvat understood nothing of all this but the kiss, and— 
having inquired of Madame Denis how the chevalier had been 
dressed — he set out on his quest. 

It was no easy matter for a detective so simple as Buvat to 
trace Raoul’s progress ; he had learnt from a neighbour that 
he had been seen to spring upon a grey horse which had re- 
mained some half hour fastened to the shutter, and that he 
had turned round the Rue Gros Chenet. A grocer, who 
lived at the corner of the Rue des Jeûneurs, remembered 
having seen a cavalier, whose person and horse agreed per- 
fectly with the description given by Buvat, pass by at full 
gallop ; and, lastly, a fruit woman, who kept a little shop at 
the corner of the Boulevards, swore positively that she had 
seen the man, and that he had disappeared by the Porte Saint 


A PRIME MINISTER'^ S MEMORY, 


339 


Denis ; but from this point all the information was vague, 
unsatisfactory, and uncertain, so that, after two hours of use- 
less inquiry, Buvat returned to Madame Denis’ house with, 
out any more definite information to give Bathilde than that, 
wherever D’Harmental might be gone, he had passed along 
the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Buvat found his ward much 
agitated ; during his absence she had grown rapidly worse, 
and the crisis foreseen by the doctor was fast approaching. 
Bathilde’s eyes flashed ; her skin seemed to glow ; her words 
were short and firm. Madame Denis had just sent for the 
doctor. 

The poor woman was not without her own anxieties ; for 
some time she had suspected that the Abbé Brigaud was 
mixed up in some plot, and what she had just learned, that 
D’Harmental was not a poor student but a rich colonel, con- 
firmed her conjectures, since it had been Brigaud who had 
introduced him to her. This similarity of position had not a 
little contributed to soften her heart — always kind — towards 
Bathilde. She listened, then, with eagerness to the little 
information which Buvat had been able to collect for the 
sufferer, and, as it was far from being sufficiently positive to 
calm the patient, she promised, if she heard anything herselti 
to report it directly. 

In the meantime the doctor arrived. Great as was his 
command over himself, it was easy to see that he thought 
Bathilde in some danger — he bled her abundantly, ordered 
refreshing drinks, and advised that some one should watch 
at the bed-side. Emilie and Athenais, who, their little ab- 
surdities excepted, were excellent girls, declared directly that 
that was their business, and that they would pass the night 
with Bathilde alternately ; Emilie, as eldest, claimed the first 
watch, w’hich was given her without contest. As to Buvat, 
since he could not remain in the room, they asked him to 
return home ; a thing to which he would not consent till 
Bathilde herself had begged it. The bleeding had some- 
what calmed her, and she seemed to feel better ; Madame 
Denis had left the room ; Mademoiselle Athenais also had 
retired; Monsieur Boniface, after returning from the Morgue, 
where he had been to pay a visit to the body of Roquefinette, 
had mounted to his own room, and Emilie watched by tne 

22 — 2 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


34<J 

fire-p!ace, and read a little book which she took from her 
pocket. She shortly heard a movement in the bed, and ran 
towards it ; then, after an instant’s silence, during which she 
heard the opening and shutting of two or three doors, and 
before she had time to say, — That is not the voice of 
Monsieur Raoul, it is the Abbé Brigaud,” Bathilde had fallen 
back on her pillow. 

An instant afterwards Madame Denis half opened the door, 
and in a trembling voice called Emilie, who kissed Bathilde 
and went out 

Suddenly Bathilde was aroused; the abbé was in the room 
next to hers, and she thought that she heard him pronounce 
Raoul’s name. She now remembered having several times 
seen the abbé at D’Harmental’s rooms ; she knew that he 
•was one of the most intimate friends of Madame de Maine ; 
she thought, then, that the abbé must bring news of him. 
Her first idea was to slip from the bed, put on a dressing- 
gown, and go and ask what had happened ; but she con- 
sidered that if the news was bad they would not tell it, and 
that it would be better to overhear the conversation, which 
appeared animated. Consequently she pressed her ear to 
the panel, and listened as if her whole life had been spent 
in cultivating that single sense. 

Brigaud was relating to Madame Denis what had happened. 
Valef had made his way to the Faubourg Saint Antoine, and 
given warning to Madame de Maine of the failure of the 
expedition. Madame de Maine had immediately freed the 
conspirators from their oaths, advised Malezieux and Brigaud 
to save themselves, and retired to the Arsenal. Brigaud 
came therefore to bid adieu to Madame Denis ; he was going 
to attempt to reach Spain in the disguise of a pedlar. In the 
midst of his recital, interrupted by the exclamation of poor 
Madame Denis and of Mademoiselle Athenais and Emilie, 
the abbé thought that he heard a cry in the next room, 
just at the time when he was relating D’Harmental’s cata- 
strophe ; but as no one had paid any attention to the cry, 
and as he was not aware of Bathilde’s being there, he had 
attached no importance to this noise, regarding the nature of 
which he might easily have been mistaken ; moreover, Boni- 
face, summoned in his turn, had entered at the moment, 


A PRIME MINISTER'S MEMORY. 


34 * 


and, as the abbé had a particular fancy for Boniface, his 
entrance had naturally turned Brigand’s thoughts into a dif- 
ferent channel. 

Still, this was not the time for long leave-takings ; Brigand 
desired that daylight should find him as far as possible from 
Paris. He took leave of the Denis family, and set out with 
Boniface, who declared that he would accompany friend 
' Brigand as far as the barrier. 

As they opened the staircase-door they heard the voice of 
the portress, who appeared to be opposing the passage of 
some one ; they descended to discover the cause of the dis-> 
cussion, and found Bathilde, with streaming hair, naked feet, 
and wrapped in a long white ¥obe, standing on the staircase, 
and endeavouring to go out in spite of the efforts of the por- 
tress. The poor girl had heard everything ; the fever had 
changed into delirium ; she would join Raoul ; she would see 
him again ; she would die wdth him. 

The three women took her in their arms. For a minute 
she struggled against them, murmuring incoherent words j 
her cheeks were flushed with fever, while her limbs trembled, 
and her teeth chattered ; but soon her strength failed her, 
her head sank back, and, calling on the name of Raoul, she 
fainted a second time. 

They sent once more for the doctor. What he had feared 
was now no longer doubtful — brain fever had declared itself. 
At this moment some one knocked ; it was Buvat, whom 
Brigand and Boniface had found wandering to and fro before 
the house like a ghost ; and who, not able to keep up any 
longer, had come to beg a seat in some corner, he did not 
care where, so long as from time to time he had news of 
Bathilde. The poor family were too sad themselves not to 
feel for the grief of others. Madame signed to Buvat to seat 
himself in a corner, and retired into her own room with 
Athenais, leaving Emilie once more with the sufferer. About 
daybreak Boniface returned : he had gone with Brigaud as 
far as the Barrière d’Enfer, where the abbé had left him, hoping 
. — thanks to his good steed, and to his disguise — to reach the 
Spanish frontier. 

Bathilde’s delirium continued. All night she talked of 
Raoul; she often mentioned Buvat’s name, and always accused 


342 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


him of having killed her lover. Buvat heard it, and, without 
daring to defend himself, to reply, or even to groan, had 
silently burst into tears, and, pondering on what means 
existed of repairing the evil he had caused, he at last arrived 
at a desperate resolution. He approached the bed, kissed the 
feverish hand of Bathilde, who did not recognise him, and . 
went out. 

Buvat had, in fact, determined on a bold course. It was 
to go himself to Dubois, tell him everything, and ask, as his 
recompense — not the payment of his arrears — not advance- 
ment at the library — but pardon for D’Harmental. It was 
the least that could be accorded to the man whom the regent 
himself had called the saviour of France. Buvat did not 
doubt that he should soon return bearing good news, and 
that it would restore Bathilde to health. 

Consequently Buvat went home to arrange his disordered 
dress, which bore the marks of the events of the day and 
the emotions of the night ; and, moreover, he did not dare to 
present hhnself at the minister’s house so early, for fear of 
disturbing him. His toilet finished, and as it was still only 
nine o’clock, he returned for a few minutes to Bathilde’s 
room — it was that which the young girl had left the day 
before. Buvat sat down in the chair which she had quitted, 
touched the articles which she liked to touch, kissed the feet 
of the crucifix, which she kissed each night — one would have 
thought him a lover following the steps of his mistress. 

Ten o’clock struck ; it was the hour at which Buvat had 
often before repaired to the Palais Royal. The fear of being 
importunate gave place to the hope of being received as he 
had always been. He took his hat and cane, and called at 
Madame Denis’s to ask how Bathilde had been during his 
absence; he found that she had never ceased to call foi 
Raoul. The doctor had bled her for the third time. He 
raised his eyes to heaven, heaved a profound sigh, and set 
out for the Palais Royal. 

The moment was unlucky. Dubois, who had been con- 
stantly on his feet for four or five days, suffered horribly from 
the malady which was to cause his death in a few months ; 
moreover, he was beyond measure annoyed that only D’Har- 
mental had been taken, and had just given orders to Leblanc 


A PRIME MINISTER'S MEMORY, 


343 


and D’Argenson to press on the trial with all possible speed, 
when his valet-de-chambre, who was accustomed to see the 
worthy writer arrive every morning, announced M. Buvat. 

“ And who the devil is M. Buvat ?” 

“ It is I, monseigneur,” said the poor fellow, venturing to 
slip between the valet and the door, and bowing his honest 
head before the prime minister. 

“Well, who are you ?” asked Dubois, as if he had never 
seen him before. 

“ What, monseigneur !” exclaimed the astonished Buvat ; 
“ </o you not recognise me ? I come to congratulate you on 
the discovery of the conspiracy.” 

“ I get congratulations enough of that kind— thanks for 
yours, M. Buvat,” said Dubois, quietly. 

“ But, monseigneur, I come also to ask a favour.” 

“ A favour ! and on what grounds ?” 

“ Monseigneur,” stammered Buvat, “but monseigneur 

do you not remember that you promised me a a 

recompense.” 

“ A recompense to you, you double idiot.” 

“ What ! monseigneur,” continued poor Buvat, getting 
more and more frightened, “ do you not recollect that you 
told me, here, in this very room, that I had my fortune at my 
fingers’ ends?” 

“ And now,” said Dubois, “ I tell you that you have your 
life in your legs, for unless you decamp pretty quick ” 

“ But, monseigneur ” 

“Ah ! you reason with me, scoundrel,” shouted Dubois, 
raising himself with one hand on the arm of his chair, and 
the other on his archbishop’s crook, “wait, then, you shall 
see ” 

Buvat had seen quite enough ; at the threatening gesture 
of the premier he understood what was to follow, and turning 
round, he fled at full speed \ but, quick as he was, he had 
still time to hear Dubois — with the most horrible oaths and 
curses — order his valet to beat him to death if ever again he 
put his foot inside the door of the Palais Royal. 

Buvat understood that there was no more hope in that 
direction, and that, not only must he renounce the idea of 
being of service to D’Harmental, but also of the payment of 


344 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


his arrears, in which he had fondly trusted. This chain of 
thought naturally reminded him that for eight days he had 
not been to the library — he was near there — he resolved to 
go to his office, if it was only to excuse himself to his superior, 
and relate to him the causes of his absence ; but here a grief, 
not less terrible than the rest, was in store for Buvat ; on 
opening the door of his office, he saw his seat occupied — a 
stranger had been appointed to his place ! 

As he had never before — during the whole fifteen years — 
been an hour late, the curator had imagined him dead, and 
had replaced him. Buvat had lost his situation for having 
saved France ! 

This last stroke was more than he could bear, and Buvat 
returned home almost as ill as Bathilde. 


BONIFACE. 


34*5 


CHAPTER XL. 

BONIFACE. 

As we have seen, Dubois urged on the trial of D’Harmental, 
hoping that his revelations would furnish him with weapons 
against those whom he wished to attack, but D’Harmental 
took refuge in a total denial with respect to others. As to 
what concerned himself personally, he confessed everything, 
saying, that his attempt on the regent was the result of 
private revenge, a revenge which had arisen from the injustice 
which had been done him in depriving him of his regiment. 
As to the men who had accompanied him, and who had lent 
him their aid in the execution of his plans, he declared that 
they were poor devils of peasants, who did not even know 
whom they were escorting. All this was not highly probable, 
but there was no means of bringing anything beyond the 
answers of the accused to bear on the matter ; the conse- 
quence was, that to the infinite annoyance of Dubois, the 
real criminals escaped his vengeance, under cover of the 
eternal denials of the chevalier, who denied having seen 
Monsieur or Madame de Maine more than once or twice in 
his life, or ever having been trusted with any political mission 
by either of them. 

They had arrested successively Laval, Pompadour, and 
Valef, and had taken them to the Bastille, but they knew that 
they might rely upon the chevalier \ and, as the situation in 
which they found themselves had been foreseen, and it had 
been agreed what each should say, they all entirely denied 
any knowledge of the affair, confessing associations with 
Monsieur and Madame de Maine, but saying that those 
associations were confined to a respectful friendship. As to 
D’Harmental, they knew him, they said, for a man of honour, 
who complained of a great injustice which had been done to 
him. They were confronted, one after the other, with the 


34 ^ 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


chevalier ; but these interviews had no other result than that 
of confirming each in his system of defence, and showing 
each that the system was religiously adhered to by his com- 
panion. 

Dubois was furious — ^he re-opened the proofs for the affair 
of the States-General, but that had been settled by the special 
parliament, which had condemned the King of Spain’s letters, 
and degraded the legitimated princes from their rank ; every- 
one regarded them as sufficiently punished by this judgment, 
without raising a second prosecution against them on the same 
grounds. Dubois had hoped, by the revelations of D’Har- 
mental, to entangle Monsieur and Madame de Maine in a 
new trial, more serious than the first ; for this time it was a 
question of a direct attempt, if not on the life, at least on the 
liberty of the regent ; but the obstinacy of the chevalier 
destroyed all his hopes. His anger had therefore turned 
solely on D’Harmental, and, as we have said, he had ordered 
Leblanc and D’Argenson to expedite the prosecution — an 
order which the two magistrates had obeyed with their 
ordinary punctuality. 

During this time Bathilde’s illness had progressed in a 
manner which had brought the poor girl to death’s door ; 
but at last youth and vigour had triumphed ; to the excite- 
ment of delirium had succeeded a complete and utter pro- 
stration ; one would have said that the fever alone had sus- 
tained her, and that, in departing, it had taken life along 
with it. 

Still every day brought improvement — ^slight, it is true, but 
decided — to the eyes of the good people who surrounded the 
bed of sickness. Little by little Bathilde began to recognise 
those who were about her, then she had stretched out her 

hand to them, and then spoken to them. As yet, to the 

astonishment of every one, they had remarked that Bathilde 
had not mentioned the name of D’Harmental ; this was a 
great relief to those who watched her, for, as they had none 
but sad news to give her about him, they preferred, as will 
easily be understood, that she should remain silent on the 
subject; every one believed, and the doctor most of all, 

that the young girl had completely forgotten the past, or, 

if she remembered it, that she confounded the reality with 


BONIFACE, 347 

the dreams of her delirium. They were all wrong, even the 
doctor : this was what had occurred : 

One morning when they had thought Bathilde sleeping, 
and had left her alone for a minute, Boniface, who, in spite 
cf the severity of his neighbour, still preserved a great fund 
of tenderness towards her, had, as was his custom every 
morning since she had been ill, half-opened the door to ask 
news of her. The growling of Mirza aroused Bathilde, who 
turned round and saw Boniface, and having before conjec- 
tured that she might probably know from him that which 
she should ask in vain from the others, namely, what had 
become of D’Harmental, she had, while quieting Mirza, ex- 
tended her pale and emaciated hand to Boniface. Boniface 
took it between his own two great red hands, then, looking 
at the young girl, and shaking his head : 

“ Yes, Mademoiselle Bathilde, yes,” said he, “ you were 
right ; you are a lady, and I am only a coarse peasant. You 
deserved a nobleman, and it was impossible that you should 
levé me.” 

“As you wished, true, Boniface, but I can love you in 
another manner.” 

“ True, Mademoiselle Bathilde, very true ; well, love me 
as you will, sc that you love me a little.” 

“ I can love you as a brother.” 

“ As a brother ! You could love poor Boniface as a 
brother, and he might love you as a sister ; he might some- 
times hold your hand as he holds it now, and embrace you 
as he sometimes embraces Mélie and Nais ? Oh ! speak, 
Mademioiselle Eathiide, what must I do fer that ?” 

“ My friend " said Bathilde. 

She has called me her friend,” said Boniface, “ she has 
called me her friend— 1, who have said such things about 
her. Listen, Mademoiselle Bathilde : do not call me your 
friend, I am not worthy of the name. You do not know 
what I have said — I said that you lived with an old man ; 
but I did not believe it. Mademoiselle Bathilde, oti my 
honour I did not — it was anger, it was rage. Mademoiselle 
Bathilde, call me beggar, rascal ; it will give me less pain 
than to hear you term me your friend.” 

“ My friend,” recommenced Bathilde, “ if you have said 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


348 

all that, I pardon you, for now not only can you make up for 
it, but also acquire eternal claims upon my gratitude.” 

“ And what shall I do ? Speak ! Let me see ! Must I go 
through the fire? Shall I jump out of the second-floor 
window ? Shall I What shall I do ? Tell me ! Every- 

thing is alike.” 

“ No, no, my friend, something much easier.’ 

“ Speak, Mademoiselle Bathilde, speak !” 

“ First, it is necessary that you should swear to do it” 

“ I swear by Heaven !” 

“ Whatever they may say to hinder you ?” 

Hinder me from doing what you ask ? — never !” 

“ Whatever may be the grief that it may cause me ?” 

“ No, that is a diflerent thing ; if it is to give you pain I 
would rather be cut in half.” 

“ But if I beg you, my friend, my brother,” said Bathilde, 
in her most persuasive voice. 

“ Oh, if you speak like that I shall cry like the Fountain 
of the Innocents !” 

And Boniface began to sob. 

“ You will tell me all then, my dear Boniface?” 

“ Everything.” 

“ Well, tell me first ” Bathilde stopped. 

“What?” 

“ Can you not imagine, Boniface ?” 

“ Yes, I think so; you want to know what has become of 
M. Raoul, do you not ?” 

“ Oh yes,” cried Bathilde, “ in heaven’s name, what has 
become of him ?” 

“ Poor fellow !” murmured Boniface. 

“ Mon Dieu ! is he dead ?” exclaimed Bathilde, sitting up 
in the bed. 

“No, happily not ; but he is a prisoner.” 

“ Where?” 

“In the Bastille.” 

“ I feared it,” said Bathilde, sinking down in the bed ; 
“ in the Bastille ! oh, mon Dieu ! mon Dieu !” 

“ Oh, now you are crying, Mademoiselle Bathilde 

“And I am here in this bed, chained, dying I” cried 
Bathilde. 


BOMFACE. 


349 


•* Oh, do not cry like that, mademoiselle ; it is your poor 
Boniface who begs you.” 

“ No, I will be firm, I will have courage ; see, Boniface, I 
weep no longer; but you understand that I must know 
everything from hour to hour, so that when he dies I may 
die.” 

“ You die. Mademoiselle Bathilde ! never, never !” 

“You have promised, you have sworn it. Boniface, you 
will keep me informed of all ?” 

“ Oh, wretch that I am, what have I promised !” 

“ And, if it must be, at the moment — the terrible moment 
— you will aid me, you will conduct me, will you not, Boni- 
face ? I must see him again — once — once more — if it be on 
the scaffold.” 

“ I will do all you desire, mademoiselle,” said Boniface, 
falling on his knees, and trying vainly to restrain his sobs. 

“ You promise me ?” 

“ I swear.” 

“ Silence ! some one is coming — not a wwd of this, it is a 
secret between us two. Rise, wipe your eyes, do as I do, 
and leave me.” 

And Bathilde began to laugh with a feverish nervousness 
that was frightful to see. Luckily it was only Buvat, and 
Boniface profited by his entrance to depart. 

“ Well, how are you ?” asked the good man. 

“ Better, father — much better ; I feel my strength return- 
ing ; in a few days I shall be able to rise ; but you, father, 
why do you not go to the office ?” — Buvat sighed deeply. — 
“ It was kind not to leave me when I was ill, but now I am 
getting better, you must return to the library, father.” 

“Yes, my child, yes,” said Buvat, swallowing his sobs. 
“ Yes, I am going.” 

“ Are you going without kissing me ?' 

“No, my child, on the contrary.” 

“ Why, father, you are crying, and yet you see that I am 
better !” 

“ I cry !” said Buvat, wiping his eyes with his handker- 
chief. “ I, crying ! If I am crying, it is only joy. Yes, I 
am going, my child — to my office — I am going.” 

And Buvat, after having embraced Bathilde, returned 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


3SO 

îiome, for he would not tell his poor child that he had lost 
his place, and the young girl was left alone. 

Then she breathed more freely now that she was tranquil ; 
Boniface, in his quality of clerk to the procureur at Châtelet, 
was in the very place to know everything, and Bathilde was 
sure that Boniface would tell her everything. Indeed, from 
that time she knew all : that Raoul had .been interrogated, 
and that he had taken everything on himself ; then the day 
following she learned that he had been confronted with Laval, 
Valef, and Pompadour, but that interview had produced 
nothing. Faithful to his promise, Boniface every evening 
brought her the day’s news, and every evening Bathilde, at 
this recital, alarming as it was, felt inspired with new resolu- 
tion. A fortnight passed thus, at the end of which time 
Bathilde began to get up and walk a little about the room, to 
the great joy of Buvat, Nanette, and the whole Denis family. 

One day Boniface, contrary to his usual habit, returned 
home from Joullu’s at three o’clock, and entered the room 
of the sufferer. The poor boy was so pale and so cast down, 
that Bathilde understood that he brought some terrible in- 
formation, and giving a cry, she rose upright, with her eyes 
fixed on him. 

“All is finished, then?” asked Bathilde. 

“ Alas !” answered Boniface, “ it is all through his own 
obstinacy. They offered him pardon — do you understand. 

Mademoiselle Bathilde? — his pardon if he would and he 

would not speak a word.” 

“ Then,”cried Bathilde, “no more hope; he is condemned.’* 

“ This morning, Mademoiselle Bathilde, this morning.’* 

“To death?” 

Boniface bowed his head. 

“ And when is he to be executed ?” 

“ To-morrow morning, at eight o’clock.” 

“ Very well,” said Bathilde. 

“ But perhaps there is still hope,” said Boniface. 

“ What ?” asked Bathilde. 

“If even now he would denounce his accomplices.** 

The young girl began to laugh, but so strangely that Boni- 
face shuddered from head to foot. 

“ Well,” said Boniface, “ who knows ? I, if I was in hi? 


BONIFACE. 


351 


place, for example, should not fail to do so ; I should say, ‘ It 
was not I, on my honour it was not I ; it was such a one, and 
such another, and so on.’” 

“ Boniface, I must go out.” 

“You, Mademoiselle Bathilde !”“ cried Boniface, terrified. 
“ You go out ! why, it would kill you.” 

“ I say I must go out.” 

“ But you cannot stand upright.” 

“ You are wrong, Boniface, I am strong— see.” 

And Bathilde began to walk up and down the room with 
a firm step. 

“ Moreover,” added Bathilde, “ you will go and fetch a 
coach.” 

“ But, Mademoiselle Bathilde ” 

“ Boniface,” said the young girl, “ you have promised to 
obey me ; till this minute you have kept your word ; are you 
getting lax in your devotion ?” 

“ I, Mademoiselle Bathilde ! I lax in my devotion to you ? 
You ask for a coach, I will fetch two.” 

“Go, my friend, my brother,” said Bathilde. 

“ Oh ! Mademoiselle Bathilde, with such words you could 
make me do what you liked. In five minutes the coach will 
be here.” 

And Boniface ran out. 

Bathilde had on a loose white robe ; she tied it in with a 
girdle, threw a cloak over her shoulders, and got ready. As 
she was advancing to the door Madame Denis entered. 

“ Oh, my dear child^ what in heaven’s name are you going 
to do?” 

“ Madame.” said Bathilde, “ it is necessary that I should 
go out.” 

“ Go out ! you are mad ?” 

“ No, madame,” said Bathilde, “ I am in perfect possession 
of my senses, but you would drive me mad by retaining me.” 

“ But at least where are you going, my dear child ?” 

“ Do you not know that he is condemned ?” 

Oh ! mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! who told you that ? I had 
asked every one to keep it from you.” 

“ Yes, and to-morrow you would have told me that he was 


352 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


dead, and I should have answered, ‘You have killed him, for 
I had a means of saving him, perhaps.’ ” 

“ You, you, my child ! you have a means of saving him ?’' 

“ I said, perhaps j let me try the means, it is the only one 
remaining.” 

“Go, my child,” said Madame Denis, struck by the inspired 
tone of Bathilde’s voice, “ go, and may God guide you !” 

Bathilde went out, descended the staircase with a slow but 
firm step, crossed the street, ascended the four stories without 
resting, opened the door of her room, which she had not 
entered since the day of the catastrophe. At the noise which 
she made, Nanette came out of the inner room, and gave a 
cry at seeing her young mistress. 

“ Well,” asked Bathilde, in a grave tone, “ what is it, my 
good Nanette ?” 

“ Oh, mon Dieu !” cried the poor woman, trembling, “ is 
that really you, or is it your shadow ?” 

“ It is I, Nanette; I am not yet dead.” 

“ And why have you left the Denis’ house ? have they said 
anything to wound you ?” 

“No, Nanette, but I. have something to do which is neces- 
sary — indispensable. ” 

“ You, go out in your present state ! you will kill yourself 
M. Buvat, M. Buvat, here is our young lady going out; come 
and tell her that it must not be.” 

Bathilde turned towards Buvat, with the intention of 
employing her ascendancy over him, if he endeavoured to 
stop her, but she saw him with so sorrowful a face that she 
did not doubt that he knew the fatal news. On his part, 
Buvat burst into tears on seeing her. 

“ My father,” said Bathilde, “ what has been done to-day 
has been the work of men, what remains is in the hands of 
God, and he will have pity on us.” 

“ Oh !” cried Buvat, sinking into a chair, “ it is I who 
have killed him, it is I who have killed him.” 

Bathilde went up to him solemnly and kissed him. 

“ But what are you going to do, my child ?” 

“ My duty,” answered Bathilde. 

She opened a little cupboard in the pre-dieu, took out A 
black pocket book, opened it, and drew out a letter. 


BONIFACE, 


353 


“ You are right, you are right, my child, I had forgotten 
that letter.” 

“ I remembered it,” answered Bathilde, kissing the letter, 
^and placing it next her heart, “ for it was the sole inheritance 
my mother left me.” 

At that moment they heard the noise of a coach at the 
door. 

‘‘Adieu, father ! adieu, Nanette ! Pray for my success.” 

And Bathilde went away, with a solemn gravity which made 
her, in the eyes of those who watched her, almost a saint. 

At the door she found Boniface waiting with a coach. 

“Shall I go with you. Mademoiselle Bathilde?” asked he. 

“ No, no, my friend,” said Bathilde, “ not now; to-morroW| 
perhaps.” 

She entered the coach. 

“ Where to ?” asked the coachman, 

“ To the Arsenal.” 


354 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE THREE VISITS. 

On arriving at the Arsenal, Bathilde asked for Mademoiselle 
de Launay, who — at her request — led her at once to Madame 
de Maine. 

“ Ah, it is you, my child Ÿ* said the duchess, with a dis- 
tracted air and voice; “it is well to remember one’s friends 
when they are in misfortune.” 

“Alas, madame !” replied Bathilde, “I come to your royal 
highness to speak of one still more unfortunate. Doubtless 
you may have lost some of your titles, some of your dignities, 
but their vengeance will stop, for no one would dare to 
attack the life, or even the liberty, of the son of Louis XIV., 
or the grand-daughter of the great Condé.” 

“ The life, no ; but the liberty, I will not answer for it Do 
you know that that idiot of an Abbé Brigand has got arrested 
three days ago at Orleans, dressed as a pedlar, and — on false 
revelations, which they represented to him as coming from 
me — has confessed all, and compromised us terribly, so that 
I should not be astonished at being arrested this very day ?” 

“ He for whom I come to implore your pity, madame, has 
revealed nothing, but, on the contrary, is condemned to death 
for having kept silence.” 

“ Ah ! my dear child,” cried the duchess, “ you speak ol 
poor D’Harmental; he is a gentleman; you know him, then?” 

“ Alas !” said Mademoiselle de Launay, “ not only Bathilde 
knows him, but she loves him.” 

“ Poor child ! but what can I do ? I can do nothing : I 
have no influence. For me to attempt anything in his favour 
would be to take away from him the last hope remaining.” 

“ I know it, madame,” said Bathilde, “ and I only ask of 
your highness one thing ; it is, that, through some of your 


THE THREE VISITS. 


355 


friends or acquaintances, I may gain admission to mon- 
seigneur the regent. The rest lies with me.” 

“ My child, do you know what you are asking?” inquired 
the duchess. “Do you know that the regent respects no one ? 
Do you know — that you are beautiful as an angel, and Still 
more so from your present paleness ? Do you know ” 

“ Madame,” said Bathilde, with dignity, “ I know that my 
father saved his life, and died in his service.” 

“ Ah, that is another thing,” said the duchess ; “ stay, De 
Launay, call Malezieux.” 

Mademoiselle de Launay obeyed, and a moment afterwards 
the faithful chancellor entered. 

“ Malezieux,’’ said the duchess, “ you must take this child 
to the Duchesse de Berry, with a recommendation from me. 
She must see the regent, and at once ; the life of a man de- 
pends upon it — it is that of D’Harmental, whom I would 
myself give so much to save.” 

“ I go, madame,” said Malezieux. 

“ You see, my child,” said the duchess, “ I do all I can 
for you ; if I can be useful to you in any other way — if, to 
prepare his flight, or to seduce a gaoler, money is needed, I 
have still some diamonds, which cannot be better employed 
than in saving the life of so brave a gentleman. Come, lose 
no time, go at once to my niece ; you know that she is her 
father’s favourite.” 

“ I know, madame,” said Bathilde, “that you are an angel, 
and, if I succeed, I shall owe you more than my life.” 

“ Come, De Launay,” continued Madame de Maine, when 
Bathilde was gone, “let us return to our trunks.” 

Bathilde, accompanied by Malezieux, arrived at the Lux- 
embourg in twenty minutes. Thanks to Malezieux, Bathilde 
entered without difficulty; she was conducted into a little 
boudoir, where she was told to wait while the chancellor 
should see her royal highness, and inform her of the favour 
they came to ask. 

Malezieux acquitted himself of the commission with zeal, 
and Bathilde had not waited ten minutes when she saw him 
return with the Duchesse de Berry. The duchess had an 
excellent heart, and she had been greatly moved by Male* 
aieux’ recital, so that, when she appeared, there was no mis- 

23~2 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


3S6 


taking the interest she already felt in the young girl who came 
to solicit her protection. Bathilde came to her, and would 
have fallen at her feet, but the duchess took her by the hand, 
and kissing her on the forehead, — 

My poor child,” said she, “ why did you not come to me 
a week ago ?” 

“And why a week ago rather than to-day, madame?^ 
asked Bathilde, with anxiety. 

“ Because a week ago I should have yielded to none the 
pleasure of taking you to my father, and that now is im 
possible.” 

“ Impossible ! and why ?” cried Bathilde. 

“ Do you not know that I am in complete disgrace since 
the day before yesterday ? Alas ! princess as I am, I am a 
woman like you, and like you I have had the misfortune to 
love. We daughters of the royal race, you know, may not 
dispose of our hearts without the authority of the king and 
his ministers. I have disposed of my heart, and I have 
nothing to say, for I was pardoned ; but I disposed of my 
hand, and I am punished. See, what a strange thing ! They 
make a crime of what in any one else would have been 
praised. For three days my lover has been my husband, and 
for three days, that is to say, from the moment when I could 
present myself before my father without blushing, I am for- 
bidden his presence. Yesterday my guard was taken from 
me ; this morning I presented myself at the Palais Royal and 
was refused admittance.” 

“Alas !” said Bathilde, “ I am unhappy, for I had no hope 
but in you, madame, and I know no one who can introduce 
me to the regent And it is to-morrow, madame, at eight 
o’clock, that they will kill him whom I love as you love 
M. de Riom. Oh, madame, take pity on me, for if you do 
not, I am lost !” 

“ Mon Dieu ! Riom, come to our aid,” said the duchess, 
turning to her husband, who entered at this moment ; “ here 
is a poor child who wants to see my father directly, without 
delay ; her life depends on the interview. Her life ! What 
saying? More than her life — the life of a man she 
Lauzun’s nephew should never be at a loss ; find us 


THE THREE VISITS. 


357 


a means, and, if it be possible, I will love you more than 
ever.” 

“I have one,” said Riom, smiling. 

“Oh, monsieur,” cried Bathilde, “tell it me, and I will be 
eternally grateful.” 

“ Oh, speak !” said the Duchesse de Berry, in a voice 
almost as pressing as Bathilde’s. 

• “ But it compromises your sister singularly.” 

“ Which one ?” 

“ Mademoiselle de Valois.” 

“ Aglaé ! how so ?” 

“ Do you not know that there exists a kind of sorcerer, 
who has the power of appearing before her day or night, 
no one knows how ?” 

“ Richelieu ? it is true !” cried the Duchesse de Berry : 
« but ” 

“ But what, madame ?” 

“ He will not, perhaps ” 

“ I will beg him so that he will take pity on me,” said 
Bathilde ; “ besides, you will speak a word for me, will you 
not ? He will not dare to refuse what your highness asks.” 

“ We will do better than that,” said the duchess. “ Riom, 
call Madame de Mouchy, beg her to take mademoiselle her- 
self to the duke. Madame de Mouchy is my first lady-in- 
waiting,” said the duchess, turning to Bathilde, “ and it is 
supposed that the Due de Richelieu owes her some gratitude. 
You see, I could not choose you a better introductress.” 

“ Oh, thanks, madame,” cried Bathilde, kissing the 
duchess’ hands, “you are right, and all hope is not yet lost 
And you say that the Due de Richelieu has a means of 
entering the Palais Royal ?” 

“ Stay, let us understand each other. I do not say so, 
report says so.” 

“ Oh !” cried Bathilde, “if we only find him at home 1” 

“ That is a chance ; but yet, let me see, what time is it ? 
scarcely eight o’clock. He will probably sup in town, and 
return to dress. I will tell Madame de Mouchy to wait for 
him with you. Will you not,” said she, turning to the lady- 
in-waiting, who now entered, “wait for the duke till he 
returns ?” 


358 


THE CONSPÎRATORSi 


“ I will do whatever your highness orders,” said Madame 
de Mouchy. 

“Well, I order you to obtain from the Due de Richelieu 
a promise that mademoiselle shall see the regent, and I 
authorise you to use, for this purpose, whatever influence 
you may possess over him.” 

“ Madame goes a long way,” said Madame de Mouchy, 
smiling. 

“ Never mind, go and do what I tell you ; and you, my 
child, take courage, follow madame, and if, on your road in 
life, you hear much harm of the Duchesse de Berry, whom 
they anathematize, tell them that I have a good heart, and 
that, in spite of all these excommunications, I hope that 
much will be forgiven me, because I have loved much. Is 
it not so, Riom 

“ I do not know, madame,” said Bathilde, “ whether you 
are well or ill spoken off, but I know that to me you seem 
so good and great that I could kiss the trace of your foot^ 
steps.” 

“Now go, my chUd; if you miss M. de Richelieu you 
may not know where to find him, and may wait for him use- 
lessly.” 

“ Since her highness permits it, come then, madame,” said 
Bathilde, “ for every minute seems to me an age.” 

A quarter of an hour afterwards, Bathilde and Madame de 
Mouchy were at Richelieu’s hotel. Contrary to all expec- 
'tation he was at home. Madame de Mouchy entered at 
once, followed by Bathilde. They found Richelieu occupied 
with Raffe, his secretary, in burning a number of useless 
letters, and putting some others aside. 

“ Well, madame,” said Richelieu, coming forward with a 
smile on his lips, “ what good wind blows you here ? And 
to what event do I owe the happiness of receiving you at my 
house at half-past eight in the evening ?” 

“ To my wish to enable you to do a good action, duke.” 

“ In that case, make haste, madame.” 

•* Do you leave Paris this evening ?” 

**No, but I am going to-morrow morning — to the Bastille.” 

** What joke is this ?” 

“ I assure you it is no joke at all to leave my hotel, where 


THE THREE VISITS. 


359 

I am very comfortable, for that of the king, where I shall be 
just the reverse. I know it, for this will be my third visit.” 

“What makes you think you will be arrested to-morrow?” 

“ I have been warned.” 

“ By a sure person ?” 

“Judge for yourself.” 

And he handed a letter to Madame de Mouchy, who took 
it and read, — 

“ Innocent or guilty you have only time to fly. The regent 
has just said aloud before me that at last he has got the Due 
de Richelieu. To-morrow you will be arrested.’ 

“ Do you think the person in a position to be well in- 
formed ?” 

“ Yes, for I think I recognise the writing.” 

“ You see, then, that I was right in telling you to make 
haste. Now, if it is a thing which may be done in the space 
of a night, speak, I am at your orders.” 

“ An hour will suffice.” 

“ Speak, then ; you know I can refuse 3^ou nothing.” 

“ VVell,” said Madame de Mouchy, “ the thing is told in 
a few words. Do you intend this evening to go and thank 
the person who gave you this advice ?” 

“ Probably,” said the duke, laughing. 

“Well, you must present mademoiselle to her.” 

“ Mademoiselle !” cried the duke, astonished, and turning 
towards Bathilde, who till then had remained hidden in the 
darkness, “ and who is mademoiselle ?” 

“ A young girl who loves the Chevalier D’Harmental — 
who is to be executed to-morrow, as you know, and whose 
pardon she wishes to ask from the regent.” 

“You love the Chevalier D’Harmental, mademoiselle?” 
said the duke, addressing Bathilde. 

“ Oh, monsieur !” stammered Bathilde, blushing. 

“ Do not conceal it, mademoiselle. He is a noble young 
man, and I would give ten years of my own life to save him. 
And do you think you have any means of interesting the 
regent in his favour ?” 

“I believe so.” 

“ It is well. I only hope it may be so. Madame,” con- 
dnued the duke, turning to Madame de Mouchy, “ return 


36 o 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


to her royal highness and tell her that mademoiselle shall 
see the regent in an hour.” 

“ Oh, M. le Duc !” cried Bathilde. 

“ Decidedly, my dear Richelieu, I begin to think, as people 
say, that you have made a compact with the devil ; that you 
may pass through key-holes, and I confess I shall be less 
uneasy now, in seeing you go to the Bastille.” 

“ At any rate, you know, madame, that charity teaches us 
to visit prisoners, and if you retain any recollection of poor 
Armand ” 

“Silence, duke, be discreet, and we will see what can be 
done for you. Meanwhile, you promise that mademoiselle 
shall see the regent ?” 

“ It is a settled thing.” 

“ Adieu, duke, and may the Bastille be easy to you.” 

“ Is it adieu you say ?” 

“ Au revoir 1” 

“That is right.” 

And, having kissed Madame de Mouchy’s hand, he led her 
to the door ; then, returning to Bathilde : 

“ Mademoiselle,” said he, “ what I am about to do for you 
compromises the reputation and honour of a princess of the 
blood, but the gravity of the occasion demands some sacrifice. 
Swear to me, then, that you will never tell, but to one 
person (for I know there are persons for whom you have no 
secrets), swear that you will never tell any but him, and that 
no other shall ever know in what manner you came to the 
regent.” 

“ Monsieur, I swear it by all I hold most sacred in the 
world — by my mother’s memory.” 

“ That will suffice,” said the duke, ringing a belL A valet- 
de-chambre entered. 

“ Lafosse,” said the duke, “ the bay horses and the carriage 
without arms.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Bathilde, “ if you would save time, I 
have a hired carriage below.” 

“ That is still better. I am at your orders, mademoiselle.” 

“ Am I to go with monsieur ?” asked the servant. 

“No, stay and help Raffé to put these papers in order. 


THE THREE VISITS. 361 

There are several which it is quite unnecessary for Dubois 
to see.” 

And the duke offered his arm to Bathilde, went down, 
handed her into the carriage, and after telling the coachman 
to stop at the corner of the Rue Saint Honoré and the Rue 
de Richelieu, placed himself by her side, as thoughtless as 
though the fate from which he was about to save the chevalier 
might not also await himsel£ 


3^2 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE CLOSET. 

The carriage stopped at its destination, and Richelieu, getting 
out and taking a key from his pocket, opened the door of a 
house at the corner of the Rue de Richelieu. 

“ I must ask your pardon, mademoiselle,” said the duke, 
offering his arm to Bathilde, “ for leading you by badly- 
lighted staircases and passages ; but I am anxious not to be 
recognised, should any one meet me here. We have not far 
to go.” 

Bathilde had counted about twenty steps, when the duke 
stopped, drew a second key from his pocket, and opened a 
door, then entered an ante-chamber, and lighted a candle at 
a lamp on the staircase. 

“ Once again I must ask pardon, mademoiselle,” said the 
duke, “ but you will soon understand why I chose to dis- 
pense with a servant here.” 

It mattered little to Bathilde whether the duke had a 
servant or not ; she entered the ante- chamber without reply- 
ing, and the duke locked the door behind her. 

“ Now follow me,” said the duke ; and he walked before 
the young girl, lighting her with the candle which he held in 
his hand. They crossed a dining-room and drawing-room, 
then entered a bedroom, where the duke stopped. 

“Mademoiselle,” said Richelieu, placing the candle on 
the chimney-piece, “ I have your word that you will reveal 
nothing of what you are about to see.” 

“ I have given you my promise, and I now renew it ; 1 
should be ungrateful indeed if I were to fail.” 

“ Well, then, be the third in our secret, which is one of 
love ; we put it under the safeguard of love.” 

And the Due de Richelieu, sliding away a panel in the 
woodwork, discovered an opening in the wall, beyond which 


THE CLOSET, 


3«3 


was the back of a closet, and he knocked softly three times. 
Presently they heard a key turn in the lock, then saw a light 
between the planks, then a low voice asked, “Is it you?’^ 
On the duke’s replying in the affirmative, three of these 
planks were quietly detached, opening a means of communi- 
cation from one room to the other, and the duke and Bathilde 
found themselves in the presence of Mademoiselle de Valois, 
who uttered a cry on seeing her lover accompanied by a 
woman. 

“ Fear nothing, dear Aglaé,” said the duke, passing into 
the room where she was, and taking her hand, while Bathilde 
remained motionless in her place, not dâring to move a step 
till her presence was explained. 

“ But will you tell me ?” began Mademoiselle de Valois, 
looking at Bathilde uneasily. 

“ Directly. You have heard me speak of the Chevalier 
d’Harmental, have you not ?” 

“ The day before yesterday you told me that by a word he 
might save his own life and compromise you all, but that he 
would never speak this word.” 

“ Well, he has not spoken, and he is condemned to death, 
and is to be executed to-morrow. This young girl loves 
him, and his pardon depends on the regent. Do you under- 
stand ?” 

“ Oh, yes !” said Mademoiselle de Valois. 

“ Come, mademoiselle,” said the duke to Bathilde, taking 
her by the hand ; then, turning again to the princess, “ She 
did not know how to reach your father, my dear Aglaé, and 
came to me just as I had received your letter. I had to 
thank you for the good advice you gave me ; and, as I know 
your hearty I thought I should please you by showing my 
gratitude, in offering you an opportunity to save the life of a 
man to whose silence you probably owe my own.” 

“And you were right, duke. You are welcome, mademoi- 
selle. What can I do for you ?” 

“ I wish to see the regent,” said Bathilde, “ and your high- 
ness can take me to him.” • n j 

“ Will you wait for me, duke ?” asked Mademoiselle de 

Valois uneasily. 

“Can you doubt it?” 


364 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


** Then go into the closet, lest any one should surprise you 
here. I will take mademoiselle to my father, and return 
directly.” 

“ I will wait,” said the duke, following the instructions of 
the princess and entering the closet. Mademoiselle de Valois 
exchanged some low words with her lover, locked the closet, 
put the key in her pocket, and holding out her hand to 
Bathilde, — • 

“ Mademoiselle,” said she, “ all women who love are 
sisters ; Armand and you did well to rely upon me ; come.” 

Bathilde kissed the hand she held out, and followed her. 
They passed through all the rooms facing the Palais Royal, 
and then, turning to the left, entered those which looked on 
the Rue de Valois, amongst which was the regent’s bedroom. 

We have arrived,” said Mademoiselle de Valois, stopping 
before a door, and turning to Bathilde, who at this news 
trembled and turned pale ; for all the strength which had 
sustained her for the last three or four hours was ready to 
disappear just as she needed it the most. 

“ Oh, mon Dieu 1 I shall never dare to apeak,” said 
Bathilde. 

“ Courage, mademoiselle ! enter, fall at his feet, God and 
his own heart will do the rest.” 

At these words, seeing that the young girl still hesitated, 
she opened the door, pushed Bathilde in, and closed it be- 
hind her. She then ran down with a light step to rejoin 
Richelieu, leaving Bathilde to plead her cause tête-à-tête with 
the regent. 

At this unforeseen action, Bathilde uttered a low cry, and 
the regent, who was walking to and fro with his head bent 
down, raised it, and turned towards Bathilde, who, incapable 
of making a step in advance, fell on her knees, drew out her 
letter, and held it towards the regent. The regent had bad 
sight; he did not understand what was going on, and advanced! 
towards this woman, who appeared to him in the shade as 
a white and indistinct form ; but soon in that form he recog- 
nised a woman, and, in that woman, a young, beautiful, and 
kneeling girl. 

As to the poor child, in vain she attempted to articulate a 


THE CLOSET 365 

prayer. Voice and strength failing her together, she would 
have fallen if the regent had not held her in his arms. 

“ Mon Dieu ! mademoiselle,” said the regent, on whom 
the signs of grief produced their ordinary effect, “ what is the 
matter ? What can I do for you ? Come to this couch, I 
beg.” 

“ No, monseigneur, it is at your feet that I should be, for 
I come to ask a boon.’' 

“ And what is it ?” 

‘‘ See first who I am, monseigneur, and then I may dare 
to speak.” 

And again Bathilde held out the letter, on which rested 
her only hope, to the Due d’Orleans. 

The regent took the letter, and, by the light of a candle 
which burnt on the chimney-piece, recognised his own 
writing, and read as follows : 

“ ‘ Madame, — Your husband is dead for France and for 
me. Neither France nor I can give you back your hus- 
band ; but, remember, that if ever you are in want of any- 
thing we are both your debtors. Your affectionate, 

‘Philippe d’Okleans.’ 

“ I recognise this letter perfectly as being my own,” said 
the regent, “ but to the shame of my memory I must confess 
that I do not know to whom it was written.” 

“Look at the address, monseigneur,” said Bathilde, a 
little reassured by the expression of benevolence on the 
duke’s face. 

“Clarice du Rocher,” cried the regent, “yes, indeed, I 
remember now; I wrote this letter from Spain after the 
death of Albert, who was killed at the battle of Almanza. I 
wTOte this letter to his widow. How did it fall into your 
hands, mademoiselle ?” 

“Alas, monseigneur, I am the daughter of Albert and 

“ You, mademoiselle I And what has become of your 
mother ?” 

“ She is dead.” 

“ Long since ?’* 


366 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


“ Nearly fourteen years. 

“ But happy, doubtless, and wanting nothing.* 

In despair, monseigneur, and wanting everythiug.* 

“ But why did she not apply to me ?’* 

“ Your highness was still in Spain.” 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu ! what do you say ? Continue, made^ 
moiselle, for you cannot tell how much you interest me. 
Poor Clarice, poor Albert, they loved each other so much, 
I remember. She could not survive him. Do you know 
that your father saved my life at Nerwinden, mademoiselle ?’^ 

“ Yes, monseigneur, I know it, and that gave me courage 
to present myself before you.” 

“ But you, poor child, poor orphan, what became of you ?* 

“ I, monseigneur, was taken by a friend of our family, a 
poor writer called Jean Buvat.” 

“Jean Buvat !” cried the regent, “ I know that name ; he 
is the poor copyist who discovered the whole conspiracy, 
and who some days ago made his demands in person. A 
place in the library, was it not, some arrears due ?” 

“ The same, monseigneur.” 

“ Mademoiselle,” replied the regent, “ it appears that 
th' ise who surround you are destined to save me. I am 
thus twice your debtor. You said you had a boon to ask of 
me — speak boldly, I listen to you.” 

“ Oh, my God !” murmured Bathilde, “give me strength.” 

“ Is it, then, a very important and difficult thing that you 
desire ?” 

“ Monseigneur,” said Bathilde, “ it is the life of a man 
who has deserved death.” 

“ Is it the Chevalier D’Harmental ?” 

“ Alas, monseigneur, it is.” 

The regent’s brow became pensive, while Bathilde, seeing 
the impression produced by her demand, felt her heart beat 
and her knees tremble. 

“ Is he your relation, your ally, your friend ?” 

“ He is my life, he is my soul, monseigneur ; I love him.” 

“ But do you know that if I pardon him I must pardon 
all the rest, and that there are some still more guilty than 
he is ?” 

' “ His life only, monseigneur, all I ask is that he may live.” 


THE CLOSET. 


367 

** But if I change his sentence to a perpetual imprison- 
ment you will never see him again. What would become of 
you, then ?” asked the regent. 

Bathilde was obliged to support herself by the back of a 
chair. 

“ I would enter into a convent, where I could pray the rest 
of my life for you, monseigneur, and for him.” 

“ That cannot be,” said the regent. 

“ Why not, monseigneur ?” 

“ Because this very day, this very hour, I have been asked 
for your hand, and have promised it.” 

“You have promised my hand, monseigneur; and to 
whom ?” 

“ Read,” said the regent, taking an open letter from his 
desk, and presenting it to the young girl. 

“Raoul’s writing!” cried Bathilde; “what does this mean?” 

“ Read,” repeated the regent. 

And, in a choking voice, Bathilde read the following 
letter : — 

Monseigneur, — I have deserved death — * know it, and 
I do not ask you for life. I am ready to die at the day and 
hour appointed ; but it depends on your highness to make 
this death sweeter to me. I love a young girl whom I should 
have married if I had lived ; grant that she may be my wife 
before I die. In leaving her for ever alone and friendless in 
the world, let me at least have the consolation of giving her 
the safeguard of my name and fortune. On leaving the 
church, monseigneur, I will walk to the scaffold. This is my 
last wish, my sole desire. Do not refuse the prayer of a 
dying man. ‘ Raoul d’Harmental.* 

“ Oh, monseigneur,” said Bathilde, sobbing, “ you see that 
while I thought of him, he thought of me. Am 1 not right 
to love him, when he loves me so much ?” 

“ Yes,” said the regent, “ and I grant his request, it is just; 
may it, as he says, sweeten his last moments.” 

“Monseigneur,” cried the young girl, “is that all you 
grant him ?” 

“ You see,” said the regent, “he is just ; he asks nothing 
else.” 


368 


THE CONSPIRATORS, 


“ Oh, It IS cruel ! it is frightful ! to see him again, and lose 
him directly ; his life, monseigneur, his life, I beg ; and let 
me never see him again — better so.” 

Mademoiselle,” said the regent, in a tone which admitted 
of no reply, and writing some lines on a paper which he 
sealed, “ here is a letter to Monsieur de Launay, the governor 
of the Bastille ; it contains my instructions with regard to the 
prisoner. My captain of the guards will go wdth you, and 
see that my instructions are followed.” 

“ Oh ! his life, monseigneur, his life ; on my knees, and in 
the name of heaven, I implore you.” 

The regent rang the bell ; a valet entered. 

“ Call Monsieur the Marquis de Lafare,” he said. 

“ Oh, monsieur, you are cruel,” said Bathilde, rising ; “ at 
least permit me then to die with him. We will not be sepa* 
rated, even on the scaffold ; we will be together, even in the 
tomb.” 

“ Monsieur de Lafare, accompany mademoiselle to the 
Bastille,” said the regent. “ Here is a letter for Monsieur 
de Launay, read it with him, and see that the orders it con* 
tains are punctually executed.” 

Then, without listening to Bathilde’s last cry of despair, 
the Due d’Orleans opened the door of a closet and disap. 
pea.ed. 


THE JM ARK J A GE IN EXTREMIS, 


369 


CHAPTER XLIIL 

THE MARRIAGE IN EXTREMIS. 

Lafare dragged the young girl away, almost fainting, and 
placed her in one of the carriages always standing in the court- 
yard of the Palais Royal. During the route Bathilde did not 
speak j she was cold, dumb, and inanimate as a statue. Her 
eyes were fixed and tearless, but on arriving at the fortress 
she started. She fancied she had seen in the shade, in the 
very place where the Chevalier de Rohan was executed, 
something like a scaffold. A little further a sentinel cried 
“ Qui vive !” the carriage rolled over a drawbridge, and drew 
up at the door of the governor’s house. A footman out of 
livery opened the door, and Lafare gave Bathilde his arm — 
she could scarcely stand — all her strength had left her when 
hope left her. Lafare and the valet were obliged almost 
to carry her to the first floor. M. de Launay was at supper. 
They took Bathilde into a room to wait, while Lafare went 
directly to the governor. Ten minutes passed, during which 
Bathilde had only one idea — that of the eternal separation 
which awaited her. The poor girl saw but one thing — her 
lover on the scaffold. Lafare re-entered with the governor. 
Bathilde looked at them with a bewildered air. Lafare ap- 
proached her, and offering her his arm, — 

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “the church is prepared, the 
priest is ready.” 

Bathilde, without replying, rose and leant on the arm which 
was offered her. M. de Launay went first, lighted by two 
men bearing torches. 

As Bathilde entered by one of the side doors, she saw 
entering by the_other the Chevalier d’Harm entai, accom- 
panied by Valef and Pompadour. These were his witnesses, 
as De Launay and Lafare were hers. Each door was kept 

24 


372 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


over the drawbridge, and they found themselves outside of 
the Bastille. 

They threw themselves into each other’s arms ; there was 
no longer any doubt ; the regent granted D’Harmental his 
life, and what was more, consented not to separate him from 
Bathilde. 

This was what Bathilde and D’Harmental had never dared 
to hope ; this life of seclusion — a punishment to many — 
would be to them a paradise of love — they would be together ; 
and what else had they desired for their future, even when 
they were masters of their own fate ? A single sad idea 
crossed their minds, and both, with the sympathy of hearts 
who love, pronounced the name of Buvat. 

At this moment the carriage stopped ; at such a time every- 
thing was, for the lovers, a subject of fear. They again 
trembled, lest they should have given way too much to hope. 
The door opened — it was the postilion. 

“ What do you want ?” asked D’Harmental. 

“ I want to know where I am to take you.” 

“ Where you are to take me ! Have you no orders ?” 

“ My orders were to take you to the Bois de Vincennes, 
between the Château and Nogent-sur-Marne, and here we 
are.” 

“ And where is the escort ?” asked D’Harmental. 

“ Oh, the escort left us at the barrier !” 

“ Oh, mon Dieu !” cried D’Harmental, while Bathilde — 
panting with hope — ^joined her hands in silence, “is it 
possible ?” 

And the chevalier jumped out of the carriage, looked 
round him anxiously, then, clasping Bathilde in his arms, 
they uttered together a cry of joy and thankfulness. 

They were free as the air they breathed, but the regent had 
ordered that they should be taken to the very place w'here 
D’Harmental had carried off Bourguignon, mistaking him for 
himself ‘ 

This was the only revenge of Philippe le Débonnaire. 

Four years after this event, Buvat, reinstated in his place— 
and with his arrears paid — had the satisfaction of placing a 


FOSTSCRIPTUM, 


373 

pen in the hand of a fine boy of three years old — he was the 
son of Raoul and Bathilde. 

The two first names which the child ^Tote were Albert du 
Rocher and Clarice Gray. The third was that of Philippe 
d’Orleans, Regent of France. 


fjjstsfriptitm. 

Perhaps some persons may have taken sufficient interest in 
those who have played a secondary part in our history to 
wish to know what became of them after the events which lost 
the conspiracy and saved the regent. We will satisfy them 
in a few words. 

The Due and Duchesse de Maine, whose plotting they 
wished to stop for the future, were arrested — the duke at 
Sceaux, and the duchess in her house in the Rue Saint 
Honoré. The duke was taken to the château of Doullens, 
and the duchess to that of Dijon, and afterwards to the 
citadel of Châlons Both left at the end of a few months, 
disarming the regent, one by an absolute denial, the other by 
a complete avowal. 

Richelieu was arrested, as Mademoiselle de Valois had 
warned him, the day after that on which he had procured 
Bathilde’s interview with the regent ; but his captivity was a 
new triumph for him. It was reported that the handsome 
prisoner had obtained permission to w^alk on the terrace of 
the Bastille. The Rue Saint Antoine was filled with most 
elegant carriages, and became, in twenty-four hours, the 
fashionable promenade. The regent — who declared that he 
had proofs of the treason of M. de Richelieu, sufficient to 
lose him four heads if he had them — would not, however, 
risk his popularity with the fair sex by keeping him long in 
prison. Richelieu, again at liberty, after a captivity of three 
months, was more brilliant and more sought after than ever; 
but the closet had been walled up, and Mademoiselle de 
Valois became Duchesse de Modena. 


374 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


The Abbé Brigaud — arrested, as we have said, at Orleans— 
was kept for some time in the prison of that town, to the 
great despair of Madame Denis and her children ; but, one 
fine morning, as they were sitting down to breakfast, the 
abbé entered, as calm as ever. They asked him»a number of 
questions, but — with his habitual prudence — he referred the;n 
to his judicial declarations, saying that the affair had already 
given him so much trouble that they would greatly oblige 
him by never speaking of it any more. Now, as the Abbé 
Brigaud was quite an autocrat in Madame Denis’s establish- 
ment, his desire was religiously respected, and from that day 
the affair was as completely forgotten in the Rue du Temps- 
Perdu as if it had never existed. Some days afterwards 
Pompadour, Valef, Laval, and Malezieux, went out of prison 
in their turn, and began again to pay their court to Madame 
de Maine, as if nothing had happened. As to the Cardinal 
de Polignac, he was not even arrested ; he was simply exiled 
to his Abbey d’Anchin. 

These proofs of clemency appeared to Dubois so out of all 
reason that he came to the regent, intending to make a scene 
about it, but the regent only replied by repeating the burden 
of the song which Saint-Simon had made on him ; 

** For I am Philippe le Débonnaire, 

^ ' Philippe le Débonnaire.” 

This enraged Dubois so much, that the regent, in order to 
pacify him, was obliged to transform him into his Eminence 
the Cardinal 



THE ENa 






) 


P 










¥ 






I 


] 




% 







